


Virtuoso

by songbird-musing (Team_Starkid)



Category: Les Miserables, Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Music, Classical Music, College, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Modern Era, Music, Musicians, Mutual Pining, Operas, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2020-02-04 11:24:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 79,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18603562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Team_Starkid/pseuds/songbird-musing
Summary: Enjolras is Saint-Michel Academy's brightest young composer. He runs the orchestra, the Musician's Rights board, chairs  the scholarship program, teaches free classical music to children, and is in the middle of his dissertation. He has never been anything less than a prodigy, until his teacher forces him to write a pop song.Enter the effortlessly cool Grantaire, with his smudged eyeliner and lovely guitar-playing fingers. He really digs Enjolras' "vibe," whatever that means.





	1. Exposition

**Author's Note:**

> this is the fluffiest thing I've ever written, but please enjoy your boys bein' dreamy and nerding out about classical music for way too long

“Got a light?”

 

Enjolras blinked, staring at his own hands. He had three flutes in his left, two violins in his right, and a cello strapped precariously to his back.

“Um,” he answered, arching an eyebrow, “I don’t smoke.”

The stranger half-smiled, rolling his unlit cigarette between long fingers. Good fingers to play piano with, Enjolras noted.

Enjolras half-smiled back, pressing his lips together, hoisting his cello strap, he glanced up to the heights of the campus building.  

“Hang on... you’re that third year that conducted that concert last Friday, right?”

He faltered, and re-examined the boy in front of him. A sketchy mess of ink-black curls and inked arms. He was a dark smudge against the dazzling marble school. Enjolras had been to a lot of classical concerts, and people that looked like the stranger in front of him did not tend to frequent them. With the shadowy smear of eyeliner around wild eyes, and a glint of metal pierced through his nose, the boy looked like he belonged at the underground concert of a band no one had heard of. Enjolras smiled.

“That’s right. I’m Enjolras.”

 “I really dig your...” the boy made a vague swishing motion with his hands, “vibe.”

Enjolras didn’t know how to react.

_What was his vibe?_

“I’m Grantaire. Second year.”

Enjolras’ gaze traced the trajectory of a gemstone looped around Grantaire’s neck and the stark, sharp lines of tattoo ink, which bled into the collar of his shirt.

“Well, thank you very much, Grantaire.” Enjolras looked unhurriedly into the eyes across from him, a little taken aback by their returned steadfastness. He smiled widely. “I appreciate the stroke to the ego.” 

Grantaire grinned and kicked one ankle over the other. “See you around,” he said, oozing with easy grace. His _vibe_ was pretty enviable, to Enjolras’ tightly wound, deeply engrained stiffened etiquette.

Enjolras smiled his rehearsed showman’s smile and strode into Paris’ finest institution of the arts: Saint-Michel Academy.  

 

~*~ 

“Courf,” Enjolras called, not allowing the figure sneaking up the edge of the grand staircase to escape.

The boy turned deliberately slowly, resting an arm on the banister. “Enjolras!” he beamed, “My dearest, dearest friend.”

“Your dearest, dearest luggage rack,” Enjolras said, blue eyes narrowing. “I bought your flute and your violin.” 

“And my trombone?” Courfeyrac asked hopefully. Enjolras fixed him with a dead stare. “See, if you were my dearest, _dearest_ luggage rack you would have bought my trombone. Combeferre is much better trained than you.”

“I’ll bring you a set of spare clothes, next time, as well, because you’re still wearing yesterday’s.” Enjolras retorted, offloading two instruments into his friend’s hands.

Courfeyrac didn’t look bashful in the slightest. Enjolras didn’t expect him to. He winked scandalously, the action seductive and over-dramatic. “Did you miss me last night?”

“Do you even still live with us?” Enjolras laughed, “Combeferre’s getting moody because you keep missing movie night.”

“I’m not going to be twenty-one forever; gotta get the most use out of this flesh prison as I can.”

Enjolras grimaced. “Please never recount your sexual exploits as getting use out of your _flesh prison_ again.”

“Enjolras, my man,” Courf grinned, “That is how I will exclusively refer to it now. Laters!”

“You’re in my lecture now.”  

“Uh... Tell Johnny-boy I’m tuning up. Gotta have a quick smoke,” he mimed taking a drag of a cigarette and bounced down a couple of stairs.

“Are you high?” Enjolras asked mildly, looking past Courfeyrac’s morning-after scruffiness to his blown pupils.

“A teeny, tiny bit,” he laughed, holding two fingers together, “Last night hasn’t quite worn off, but, hey, don’t tell Johnny-boy that.”

“Every time you call him that I die a little inside,” Enjolras said drily.

“Love you!” Courfeyrac dashed away, leaving Enjolras to go into Jean Valjean’s theory lecture alone.

 

~*~

“Ah, Enjolras, good morning!” the professor said, glancing up from his laptop. “I said it at the time, but well done again for Friday. The faculty couldn’t have chosen anyone better for the role.”

Jean Valjean wasn’t a man quick to praise, but he had always liked Enjolras. Secretly, all the professors hoped for Enjolras on their register, longing for his ambition and determinedness and his almost prodigal writing.  

“Thanks sir,” he said, making his way to his unassigned seat in the front row. He couldn’t help but blister with pride.

A few minutes passed. Valjean looked around at the half dozen students and sighed through his nose. “Where is the rest of the class on this delightful Monday morning?”

“Still in bed?” offered a voice.

“Still in bed when they could be learning about the delights of atonal counterpoint?” Valjean tutted, turning on the projector.

“Courf is tuning up,” Enjolras said.

“Well text him to hurry, if he’s not in the room in two and a half minutes I’m locking the doors,” Valjean said.

Courfeyrac had been on the wrong side of a locked door a few too many times.

Enjolras hastily texted his roommate. 

After a couple of hours of relentless note taking, the class broke apart, each student working on their own personal projects, buried in manuscript paper and notation software.

“Oh, Enjolras,” said Valjean after listening to the orchestral piece he had composed through the night.

“What?” Enjolras panicked, noticing the slight quirk to his professor’s eyebrows. He looked at the score and saw nothing out of place, “What’s wrong?”

The professor took too long to respond.

“It’s perfectly fine,” Valjean said.

Enjolras frowned, the usual marble finesse of his forehead tarnished with worry. “What’s wrong with it?” he repeated, fingers clawing into his palms.

“No, Enjolras, it’s fine. It’s lovely. It’s as proficient and melodically satisfying as your works always are. You have your unwavering grasp of harmony and you’ve handled all the instruments with your usual precision.”

“But...?”

“But...” Valjean echoed, “You’ve shown this kind of work consistently recently...”

“I know. I’ve been trying to focus on a post-Classical, pre-Romantic period to truly master it. I could compose in a more Bach-style arrangement if you want,” he said, words tripping over themselves in their haste to be known. Enjolras had never really had much criticism in any field; a slither of it sent him reeling.

“I’d actually be more interested to hear more modern influences.”

“I could use some 20th Century techniques, yes,” Enjolras nodded seriously.

“No, no... I want to see you write a pop-song,” Valjean suddenly smiled widely. “Yes, that’s what you need to do. I want a pop song.”

Enjolras’ toes curled.  

“And true commercial pop,” Valjean’s eyes were alight, and Enjolras knew he would not be dissuaded. “None of the jazz pop I know you’re already planning to write.”

Enjolras gulped, the litter of extended chords that had crept into his mind, dispelled.

“Don’t look so terrified,” Valjean said with a laugh.

“But that’s going to be so horribly boring!”

“It doesn’t have to be boring; I just want you out of your comfort zone.” Valjean kindly tapped the top of Enjolras’ laptop. “Brilliant work, as always, but let’s see something different next week, alright?”

“Alright, sir,” Enjolras said, holding back a groan.

Approximately two seconds later, he received a Facebook message from Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac always commanded words _so_ succinctly, and had sent a gif of someone laughing hysterically. Enjolras turned to scowl at his friend, who was sniggering over his scrawled sheet of manuscript paper.  

Throughout the next hour, he composed an extremely angry 20th Century piece, full to the brim of staccato, discords and intense crescendo. He tried _not_ to be elitist, but... _pop music!_ The hazy glow of Valjean’s compliments had quickly worn off.  

 

The next class held no respite.  

“Typical Johnny-boy!” cawed Combeferre upon hearing the news, his glasses knocked from the bridge of his nose.

“Ugh,” Enjolras said, “Don’t call him that.”

Jehan was an explosion of colour in the room: vividly patterned cloth trousers, a clashing equally ornate shirt, a jumble of too much jewellery, and slowly dying fresh flowers in their dreadlocks.  
  
“Are you going to write the lyrics?” they asked, voice lovely and mellow with the notes of laughter still ringing there.

Enjolras died a little more inside. “I’ve only written lyrics in Italian before... And besides! Lyrics are an easy way out. A good composer should be able to convey every story without explaining it needlessly with words.” 

“You’re gonna need to write lyrics, mate.” Combeferre snorted, “Oh god, I didn’t realise how much I needed this news today. My skin has cleared, my student debts have been paid off.”

“Just wondering... do either of you know of anyone interested in joining the orchestra?” Enjolras asked, scowling. “I have two new positions to fill. Two ex-members just got expelled for being terrible friends.”

Jehan tried to look sympathetic, rolling a bead across their palm. “Oh!” they exclaimed, “Have you met Grantaire?” 

“No,” said Enjolras, bottom lip exaggeratedly pouted. An image of the smoker on the steps of the university wafted into his consciousness. “Wait... does he have black hair... and like...” Enjolras gestured to his face, “A crooked nose?” 

“Oh man,” Jehan beamed with a nod, “He is _such_ a cool guy. What a character! He has this energy that is just so eclectic –”

“And?” Enjolras interrupted, sharing a glance with Combeferre, who snorted. Jehan’s ramblings on _energies_ had been timed to last hours.

“He has this really awesome vibe going on, like, he’s been writing this indie-pop stuff built on classical conventions. It’s actually amazing... I could try and hook you up... he’s like the only one I know here who writes pop...” Jehan pondered, eyes drifting away from the conversation, “Oh Enj, are you coming to that gig tonight?”

“What gig?” Enjolras unloaded his notepad from his bag and scribbled ‘music historical context’ across the top of the sheet.

“Enjolras only goes to _concerts_ not _gigs,_ darling,” Combeferre said in an over-dramatically refined voice.

“You totally should come. It’s this student band I’m totally into at the moment. It’s like this psychedelic, contemplative, indie, punky folk music.” Prouvaire said, “R will be there, he’s roommates with the singer. They’re both really chill. You can discuss the pop thing with him. It’s at the Musain.”

“Oh, the Musain is cool,” Enjolras said tiredly. “That’s a good venue.”

“Yeah, well, _they’re_ really good. Just get there for about eightish.” They smiled, long eyelashes curling across their cheeks, in a lazy sort of bliss that only Jehan could achieve. “I’d offer to help with lyrics but I’ve challenged myself to only write in abstract Latin for a month, so...”

The fact that this news didn’t faze Combeferre or Enjolras in the slightest summed up Jehan Prouvaire perfectly.

 

~*~

“Enjolras!” Jehan cheered, looking even more luxuriated than usual. “You made it!”

The Musain _was_ a good venue, but Enjolras hadn’t seen it much in the dark. He had usually spent afternoons there, drowning in sheet music and coffee.

“Jehan Prouvaire!” Courfeyrac whooped, embracing Jehan, in his usual, all-encompassing style.

“Are you alright after last night?” Jehan questioned, glint in their eye, “You looked absolutely out of it.”

“Yeah, I was.” Courfeyrac laughed wildly, “I’m being well-behaved tonight, though...” he paused for, what Enjolras knew to be, a well-practised dramatic effect, “No Class A’s, at least.”  

Jehan turned their gaze to Enjolras and crushed an arm around his tall frame. “R is hanging out with Éponine at the front, I’ll introduce you later.” Enjolras couldn’t see Grantaire amidst the mass of swaying heads. “The band playing now is called Chakrafied and they’re really deep,” Jehan said, letting their shoulders drift in time to the spacey sound.“ Don’t look so horrified, Enjolras, I’ve lured you over to the hippie side. Listen to Chakrafied and enjoy it!”

And Enjolras actually, kind of, _did_.  

 

~*~

The second band was made up of five members: four imposing gentlemen and an even scarier looking girl with eyeliner smeared across her face.

“I’m Éponine and we’re Patron-Minette,” she purred into the microphone, basking in the onstage lights, “We’re the scoundrels and ruffians of the Musain tonight.” Her smile was vicious. She nodded to her drummer, who sped into a series of counter rhythms that Enjolras was entirely not expecting.

Their music was wild and aggressive but threaded with a lull of tender despair at the world’s injustice. It was surprisingly melodic and Enjolras, who was a master of piano, still found himself drawn to the keyboardists techniques, which were messily executed by tattooed fingers adorned with a clatter of rings, but with a bit of refinement, could fit into a Saint-Michel’s classroom with ease.  

Courfeyrac was already in a bit of a state, giggly and flushed, dancing erratically. “Dance with me, Enjolras!” he said and Enjolras obliged. “Drink with me!”

And once more Enjolras obliged.  

When Enjolras drank, which was a very rare occasion, the usual tight coil of his body unwound into a loose end; he blushed a lot and for once stopped mentally composing symphonies. 

Prouvaire reappeared when the music finished, looping long arms around Enjolras and Courfeyrac’s necks, “My boys!” they said over the hubbub, “Wanna hang in the dressing room? That’s where the real party is!”

 

The four walls of the dressing room were packed with limbs, the sound of loud celebrations and smoke.

“Hey, dude, quit it,” snapped a voice, “You’re going to get us thrown out.” The keys player stubbed out the drummers cigarette with his thumb. The drummer rolled his eyes and exhaled his breath of smoke into the other man’s face.

“Chill out, ‘Parnasse,” the drummer laughed, his voice far more velvety than expected. “I’m the bodyguard’s dealer, he won’t say anything.” 

“Just smoke outside the fire exit door,” ‘Parnasse commanded, kicking the door open with a boot, allowing a rush of cold air into the room.

“Yeah, get out, G,” Éponine said mildly, fixing her tangle of hair in the mirror.

“Éponine!” Prouvaire said loudly, almost knocking the singer off her feet with a hug.

“Prouvaire, my dear! I didn’t know you were here!”

“Of course I was. I wouldn’t miss you guys for the world!”

Éponine preened at Jehan’s response and threw her head back in laughter. “You sweetheart,” she said, “What’s your next gig?”

“I have a poetry slam next week but the poems are read syllabically to the sound of Bach. It’s this new project I’m working on at the moment.”

“Sounds weird,” Éponine said, “I’d love to come!”

“These are my friends Courfeyrac and Enjolras,” Jehan introduced, smiling fondly at the gangly pair, “From Saint-Michel’s... this is Éponine, Montparnasse, Babet, the bassist... The weirdo in the mask is Claquesous and Gueulemer just got kicked out.”

Éponine hugged them both, much smaller in person than she had appeared onstage. Montparnasse gave a flutter of his ringed fingers. Enjolras was usually aware how much taller he was than a room full of people, but even Montparnasse towered above him. Built like a ballerina, the keyboardist was slender and wraith-like, expression not unfriendly, but not particularly inviting either: as though rearranging his face into a smile would take too much effort.  

Babet was also tall and unhealthily pale. “Nice to meet you, but I have places to be,” he said mysteriously, translucent eyes flicking quickly across the room. “Text me the next rehearsal dates, Ép. See you.”

Claquesous, or ‘the weirdo in the mask’, didn’t say anything, but huddled over his guitar, fingers dancing over the fret boards effortlessly.

“Are you alright, darling?” Éponine asked Enjolras a while later when they were all lounging on the few sofas, the sounds of other bands dancing through the walls. Her brash accent was so unlike the silken tones of her singing voice.

“Huh?” Enjolras replied, blushing, because he was a little bit drunk.

“This isn’t usually Enj’s scene,” Jehan interjected, “He doesn’t usually enter an establishment unless it has a guaranteed string quartet, at the very least.”

Éponine laughed, and ruffled Enjolras’ hair, which was a very bold move. Enjolras’ hair had never been ruffled before. “Bless your Saint-Michel heart. What do you play? Wait – let me guess...Harp?”

“Yes, actually,” said Enjolras.

“Oh, I bet you get minted doing corporate gigs... How many weddings want a pretty boy harpist? _What a genius career move_...” Éponine mused aloud.

“He doesn’t just play harp,” Courfeyrac added, “I haven’t found an instrument that Enjolras _can’t_ play...” Courf snorted into his drink, eyes lost in memory. “Actually, you’re terrible at standard pop drumming, like horrifically bad,” he said, resting his head on Enjolras’ shoulder. “Sorry,” he added.

Jehan suddenly sat upright, looking around the room comically. “Where’s R?” they asked.

“Uh,” Éponine smirked and looked at Montparnasse, “Was that girl coming tonight?”

“No,” said Montparnasse fixing an eyebrow. “But I saw him talking to a different blonde girl by the side of the stage.”

“Oh,” said Éponine, looking to Jehan, “He’ll be busy, then.”

“The boy has more game than me and he isn’t even in a band,” Gueulemer complained, “That was the only reason I learned guitar.”

“Grantaire’s uglier than you, by far, and he still has more game than you,” Montparnasse said with an amused sneer.

“I should give being bisexual a try,” Guelulemer laughed.

“Not funny,” Éponine flicked her drummer’s upper arm. “Also, don’t be awful ‘Parnasse. You pride yourself on being the hottest in the band and you still don’t get laid as much as R.” 

Montparnasse scowled and gestured rudely at his band mate.

 

~*~

When Grantaire arrived into the dressing room a while later, he appeared smudged, ruffled, and incredibly smug: the image of an utter rock star. Enjolras had to remind himself that Grantaire went to Saint-Michel’s, which made him, in at least some degree, an enormous classical music nerd.

He received a chorus of catcalls and cheers as he walked through and merely shot a wink before collapsing beside Éponine. 

“You rocked it, _as always_ ,” he said, bumping shoulders with her. “Oh!” he looked at Enjolras and beamed, “Composer boy! I didn’t picture you as an avid Patron-Minette fan!”

“It’s Enjolras,” Enjolras said, ears tinged pink.

“We’re gonna get kicked out soon,” Éponine interrupted, “It’s nearly curfew. After party at ours?”

“I have class tomorrow,” Grantaire sighed.

“Go to bed then,” Éponine said, sounding bored, as she collected some leads and equipment. “Come on squad, we should get going.”

 

~*~

When they were outside, huddling under the lip of the building to shelter from rain, Courfeyrac passed his lighter around, minute flickers of deep orange lighting up the night.

“Are you coming to the after party?” Courf asked Enjolras, curled around his cigarette as if it would warm him up.

“I have 9am class,” Enjolras said, though he probably wouldn’t have gone anyway.

“That is such a Combeferre thing to say,” Jehan piped up, “You’ve been hanging out too much.”

“We _are_ roommates,” Enjolras laughed, increasingly awkward without a matching cigarette in hand. “Anyway, he’s probably getting worried; I don’t usually stay out past midnight.”

“Oh, god!” Courfeyrac suddenly exclaimed, “I think he said he had something really important to discuss with you about Bach and maths or something.”

“Yeah that sounds like ‘Ferre,” Enjolras smiled, “I should head off. Nice show, everyone. See you around.”

Éponine pulled him into a hug because she was closest, and the boy sculpted from marble and gold weaved his way into the night, leaving the bubble of chatter far behind him.


	2. Recitative

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras tries to tackle his pop-song-nightmare, and enlists the help of Grantaire.

The world exploded around Enjolras as he awoke. Combeferre was in the kitchen, coffees in hand grinning widely beside the ‘Morning Gong.’

“Why do I let you keep that godforsaken gong?” Enjolras complained, the imprint of computer keys ridged in his cheeks. He had fallen asleep at the kitchen counter with the machine a stand-in, whirring pillow.

“Morning, sunshine!” Combeferre said brightly, and Enjolras cursed himself for ending up with morning people for roommates. “Any sign of Courf?”

“Negative,” Enjolras yawned, “I think he went to an after-party last night, he could literally be anywhere. He might not even be in Paris.”

“He’s probably not even still in France,” Combeferre laughed, placing a mug beside Enjolras. “I will never understand how he can still party like a first year... When did you get back?”

“About one,” Enjolras stretched out and brought his computer to life, tapping impatiently on the mouse pad, “I was working on the pop nightmare until about five, though.”

“Ah, I had almost forgotten about your pop dilemma... How my day has been brightened!” Combeferre beamed, coiling himself around his mug. “I’m heading off soon, so if you’re ready in twenty minutes we can walk together...”

“Yeah, yeah,” Enjolras said, still not fully awoken. He yawned widely, noticing that it was already ten past eight and hurried to shower away the scents of the previous night.

 

It was an overcast day, grey skies neatly connecting to the grey Parisian pavement. Combeferre and Enjolras walked side by side, an impressive array of instruments strapped to them.

“Okay, but how about...” Combeferre interjected, swerving the topic of their heated morning debate, “How about you could either write an utterly commercial pop song that goes immensely successful, and your name is forever linked, so, like, everyone in the world will be like ‘ _Oh Enjolras? That guy who wrote that pop song_?’” he put on a silly voice, crossing his eyes underneath his glasses, “ _Or_ you write a crazily successful classical piece that changes the world of classical music forever _but_ nobody ever knows who wrote it and it goes down as a musical mystery forever. Which would you rather have?”

“Can I not just tell everyone I wrote it?” Enjolras asked, scrolling through his phone and nearly colliding with a lamppost.

“Uh... No,” Combeferre confirmed, “You tragically die and nobody knows who you were.”

“Wait... am I dead in both situations?”

“No.” Combeferre pondered, “Actually, scratch that, you’re not dead, you just can’t tell anyone you wrote it.”

“Well obviously the classical one,” Enjolras said flatly.

“Authenticity over fame... I could have guessed,” Combeferre said, not bothering to conceal a yawn. They were just going through the motions. Often they filled the space of morning silence with pointless conversations to wake their brains. “Okay so the situation is the same but with the pop one you also do loads of classical as well, but when all of your millions of fans come to your concert they just want to hear your top hit.”

“I’ll take that, then. An audience of millions is better than none, besides I’m sure I could change their mind.”

“You can’t.”

“Oh,” Enjolras stretched out his neck and they fell into silence. Enjolras’ mind drifted to the pop song he had been working on. The piece sounded spiky – filled with diminished and augmented chords – in short, it sounded nothing like a pop song.

Pop music, to Enjolras, was foreign – but not cross-the-border-to-Germany foreign, it was more of a _outside-of-our-known-galaxy_ foreign. He had hurried past shop fronts that blared warbling voices and fuzzy synths, as if the sound was shameful. His parents raised him on a strict diet of music composed before the 1900’s. Even his more rebellious high school friends viewed pop music warily – that was private schooling for you. Now, at Paris’ highest esteemed classical university – pop was an insult.

“I hate pop music,” Enjolras grumbled, heaving an almighty sigh. “It’s inane.”

“That’s the point,” Combeferre poked.

 

They bid their farewells at the gates of Saint-Michel’s and headed to their separate classes.

Enjolras weaved through the crowds, dodging instrument cases, almost receiving a trumpet to the forehead. He stopped. The throng of people behind him huffed and split around him, as he hopped back down the stairs and turned to the smoker’s area. In his first year he had held an enormous campaign to turn the area into a community garden.

“Instrumentalists should never smoke,” he had argued to the board, “It’s counterproductive to breath support. If you’re training the next generation of musicians – they shouldn’t be given the resources to destroy their lungs.”

His fury had been met with blank stares, and Enjolras had avoided the area out of principle. In the morning glow, the pavestones glistened, the ivy was burnished gold. It still looked like the perfect place for a community garden.  Enjolras had to force himself to stop mentally planting sunflowers.

Tucked in the corner, Enjolras found whom he was searching for... he also found Courfeyrac.

Grantaire and Courfeyrac were sat on the wall, chatting too animatedly for nine in the morning. Grantaire, dressed in dark green, blended into the ivy, looked as though he had been stolen from the middle of a woodland nymph painting. He turned, catching Enjolras’ eye, and beamed – Enjolras wondered what Grantaire saw as he stood there.

“Enj!” Courf said, reaching out a hand.

“Please don’t touch me, you’ve been wearing the same clothes for three days.” Enjolras commented, a grin playing on his face, “Courf, our flat is literally ten minutes away, just grab some spare clothes!”

“No, you’re right, it is so gross. I am _definitely_ coming back tonight, though. I just couldn’t give up on the chance to go to an after-party... Especially not a Patron-Minette one, those guys are absolutely mental. Montparnasse tried to get off with me, but I think I offended him when I said he reminded me of Arthur.”

“Why? The young Arthur was a dreamboat,” Enjolras said.

There was a very long pause.

“What?” Courfeyrac spluttered.

“Arthur Rubinstein was really hot in his youth,” Enjolras eyed Courf with suspicion.

“On what planet was I talking about _Arthur Rubinstein_? What is he? A pianist?”  

“Yeah...” Enjolras squinted, “Which Arthur are you talking about?”

“The aardvark thing.”

Enjolras looked blank and Grantaire started to sing the theme tune. Enjolras could only blink in response.

“I’m so confused,” Enjolras said, “Montparnasse looks nothing like an aardvark.”

“Yeah... I coulda been hallucinating pretty badly,” Courf said and hopped to his feet, “Are you coming, Enj? Fantine won’t like it if you’re late...” he tried to put on an intimidating voice, but by third year lateness seemed wholly inconsequential to everyone, even the professors.

“I’ll be there in a second; I just wanted to have a quick chat with Grantaire about the pop thing.”

Courfeyrac cackled in response. “Good luck,” he kissed both Enjolras and Grantaire on the cheek, and wandered inside the building, scuffing his cigarette out beneath his shoe.

Grantaire squinted against the sun. “How’d you enjoy Patron-Minette?”

“I liked them a lot more than I thought I would,” Enjolras said without thinking, he turned red. “I didn’t mean that I... It’s just, pop isn’t really my thing.”

“ _É_ ponine doesn’t like the word pop. It’s psychedelic, contemplative, indie, punky folk, _darling._ ”

“Well, then I guess I _am_ a fan of psychedelic, contemplative, indie, whatever else it is,” Enjolras said lightly, a smile creeping onto his lips. “Sorry to ambush you, and feel free to say no...”

“I love a good ambush, sometimes,” Grantaire laughed, “What’s wrong?”

Enjolras sighed. “Well, Prouvaire said you were doing this pop project, and my teacher is forcing me to write a _pop_ song, and I have absolutely no idea what to do, and it’s all a bit of a disaster, and I was wondering if you wanted to collaborate?” Enjolras blurted, taking an embarrassingly large gasp for breath at the end of his ramble.

“Yeah, sure, sounds cool.” Grantaire scribbled a number on the back of a receipt and held it out, “Here’s my number, text me when’s best for you... Or you could Facebook me, I’m sure there aren’t many ‘Grantaires’ on there, it won’t be too hard to find me.”

“Oh, brilliant! Thank you!” Grantaire seemed like he would have needed more convincing than that. Enjolras pocketed the receipt.

“Do you have a setup at your flat?”

“Um,” Enjolras faltered, “I have a couple of leads and a microphone... And about three-quarters of an orchestra.”

“Huh,” Grantaire shielded his eyes from the sun to look at Enjolras, “Not really helpful for pop... you can come to mine, I have everything there for the Patron-Minette recording and stuff. I’ll text you my address when you text me.” He tilted his head and laughed wolfishly, “I can’t imagine you at the flat... It will be interesting.” He grinned, “Let me know,” and sauntered away before Enjolras could say another word.

 

Performance class called for Enjolras to sit at the front. His arms cradled around the cool wooden curves of his cello. He bowed his head, pulled his bow taut, and felt his fingers fall into a familiar position, strings indenting his callused fingers. The whole classroom inhaled together, and Enjolras felt electric. His eyes fell shut, and instinct tugged at his muscles, creating the smooth, elegant dance around the instrument. The song was a duet between his body and the cellos. It was as intimate and in tune as a lovers waltz. Moments like this, lost in lines of manuscript and drowning in notes, that time ceased to exist. Enjolras felt like he did not exhale until the piece resolved, its final cadence dousing the room. The sweet, warm oasis of music cascaded as the class applauded.

Enjolras breathed raggedly against the neck of his cello, daring a smile at his classmates.

Fantine stood, roses in her cheeks. “Simply delightful!” she beamed, “Will you perform the piece at the concert next Friday? I know you’re incredibly busy, but we’re missing a cello solo...”

Enjolras pencilled it into his diary, trying to ignore the vaguely frustrated glances from the rest of the class.

Courfeyrac’s flute solo went down well, and he flushed with pride. Enjolras grinned at him genuinely, wondering how he had managed to compose such a lovely piece when he hadn’t even had time to return home.

“I feel like you need an accompanist,” Fantine said brightly, “It’s very sweet, but I think it needs a bit more depth... Do you know Combeferre?”

Enjolras and Courfeyrac shared a grin.

“You could say that, Fantine...”

“Ask him to accompany you. He’s very good at that.” She clapped her hands together without waiting for an answer, “Marius, what do you have for us today?”  

~*~

Once Enjolras had sent the text to Grantaire, his fingers couldn’t stay still. They traced over the table in triplet rhythms, danced over invisible keys, tensed as the pulse of music within him swelled.

A message returned in minutes and Enjolras dragged his eyes from Courfeyrac’s antics to read it.

_I finish at 4 today, could do something after that if you’re free –R x_

He sent back an affirmative and planned to meet the almost-stranger outside the school gates later that afternoon.

Combeferre was astutely trying not to laugh, cheeks molten with joy, as Jehan and Courf tested their ranges.

“My whistle pitch is literally the best. I’m probably the best in the school,” Courf said, emitting a high-pitched scream. “Maybe the world.”

“That is _so_ not whistle pitch,” Jehan said, snorting loudly.

“Yeah it is,” Courfeyrac shrieked again and the table of four collapsed into all encompassing laughter. Through delight-tinted eyes, Enjolras remembered again how much he adored his friends.

~*~

“Hey,” Grantaire said, stamping out a cigarette under his boot heel. He noticed Enjolras’ lingering gaze on the smouldering stub and said, “Nasty habit, I know. Especially when you’re a singer,” he lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

“You sing?” Enjolras said, carefully arranging his face into a passive, non-judgemental mask. To Courfeyrac and Jehan he often lamented the early loss of their vocal ability and breath control that promised to swoop in with every cigarette and joint they smoked.

“I do,” Grantaire said with a grin, “I also play guitar, bass, keyboard, a little bit of drums and whatever else I can get my hands on.”

“Sounds...” Enjolras floundered, “Pretty pop-based.” He grimaced. Compliments had never been a strong point of his.

“That’s why I’m the man for your job, right?” He smiled, looking like he had been rendered on a canvas, all wilderness and Dionysian thrill.  “What do you play? Harp?”

“Why does everyone say that?” Enjolras enquired.

“Am I wrong?” Grantaire directed them down the stairs to the Metro station. 

“No.”

“You’re such a harpist... everything about you screams it. How many times have you been forced to wear angel wings, a halo and a toga at weddings?”

Enjolras shuddered. “Way too many times,” he said with a hiccup of a laugh.

“That’s what I want at my wedding.” Grantaire said, hopping down the escalators carelessly, “Apollo the harpist, golden everything, even gold suits, the priest dressed as a cherub...” He dashed onto the train and held the beeping door open for Enjolras.

“Really?”

“No,” Grantaire grinned, “Couldn’t imagine anything worse... Sorry!” He careened into Enjolras as the train started and apologised again, pointing out the short route to his place on the map.

 

“I do not know what it will be like in here, so beware, in advance,” Grantaire said ominously, turning the key in his lock and giving Enjolras a warning stare. “Hello?” he called, cracking open the door by an inch. Silence poured around them. “They must be out. Welcome to Chez Patron-Minette.”

“You live with the band?”

“I’m supposed to just live with Ép and Montparnasse, but yes, I basically live with them all,” he paused and flicked the lights on, looking around disdainfully, “The other three unofficially moved in without really consulting me.”

“How awful!”

“Nah, it’s fine. I have the biggest room, anyway.” Grantaire smiled, a sheen of politeness glazing his eyes, “Drink?”

“Um, I’ll have water, please,” Enjolras said, trailing one hand on the kitchen counter.

Grantaire looked up from the fridge, a spark of mischief playing in his eyes. “We’re living the rock star life tonight,” he said, “Cheers to that!”

Enjolras wasn’t sure if he was being made fun of.

“Sorry it’s a mess, I didn’t realise this was happening, of course.” Grantaire chucked a few items of clothing around and surreptitiously shoved an armful of cans into his bin. “Afterparty...” he said as a way of explanation.  “So...my friend...” he grinned into his cup of water, “I am fully at your service, what can I do for you?” he did a silly bow, dark hair bouncing around his shoulders.

“Valjean is making me write a pop song and I have no idea what to do,”

“Harps don’t usually translate well to pop, no.”

“I can play other instruments, as well,” he was quick to confirm, as if Grantaire would care in the slightest about his pedigree of musicianship, “But only classically.”

“Have you made a start with anything?” Grantaire asked, flexing his fingers around the neck of his guitar.

“I...” Enjolras grimaced, “I _have..._ But... it’s not... well, listen for yourself.”

He plucked his phone from his pocket, searching for the audio file. It took two chords for Grantaire’s forehead to crease. It took just three more before his lips pursed, a laugh ill-hidden behind them.

“I know!” Enjolras protested, hastily muting the piece. “It’s terrible!”

“It isn’t _terrible_...” Grantaire rubbed the bridge of his nose and coughed, “It’s just not pop... like, _at all_...” A laugh bubbled out from his hand. “Sorry! It’s a lovely piece... but did you modulate twice in one bar?”

Enjolras looked sheepish. “Sort of.”

Grantaire laughed, throwing a palm to his forehead. “Oh, bless you. This is going to be harder than I thought. Let’s start again, and let’s start simple,” Grantaire said, his words _not_ what Enjolras wanted to hear. “So we’ll do a four chord song, okay?”

Enjolras paled.

Enjolras hunched over the keyboard, fingers splayed on smaller keys than he was used to, Grantaire nimbly tuned up his guitar, strumming once when he was finished and letting the discord rattle around them. 

Inner pianist screaming, Enjolras stilled and offered, “Does it have to be four chords? I mean we could add some embellishments, a modulation here and there, and still have it be pop, right?”

“Nope, pop thrives on simplicity...”

“But there are exceptions...”

“Yes, and they are known for being exceptions. You wanted straight up pop, so we’re using four chords,” Grantaire raised an eyebrow.

“But...”

“I could make us do a three chord song, if you wanted?” Grantaire laughed as Enjolras drooped, “Come on, Enjolras, let me lead you to the wild side.”

 

The pair looped four chords over and over, Grantaire humming a melody over the top. Enjolras’ eyes glazed over.

“What do you want to sing about?” Grantaire asked.

“I don’t sing,” Enjolras snapped out of his stupor, much closer to Grantaire than he thought he had been.

“Well what do you want me to sing about, then?” Grantaire slid his palm against his guitar and pulled open a scruffy notebook.

Enjolras pondered, still playing the chords in auto-pilot, the simplest thing he had played since he was five. “The disparity of classical music,” he said, turning to Grantaire with fire in his eyes.

“Woah,” Grantaire said, recoiling a little, “Not really a great subject for a pop song.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes and pushed back from the keyboard, “That’s why this whole assignment is a waste of time. You can’t talk about what you want to talk about, unless all you want to talk about is sex and alcohol.”

“Two very delightful subject matters,” Grantaire responded, mischievous glint in his eyes. When he noticed Enjolras’ stony expression he backtracked. “No, it’s not _just_ like that... Well, okay, for the most part it is, but you can write about whatever you want, really.” He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, “Okay, a pop song about the disparity of classical music, let’s... give it a go.”

Enjolras glanced at him carefully, still unsure whether Grantaire was mocking him. The dark haired boy gave a genuine smile, almost bashful as he ducked down to watch his finger position on the guitar. Enjolras blinked. He watched Grantaire astutely, taking in the curve of his neck and the curve of his nose, the ink-spill of eyelashes across his cheeks and the length and dexterity of his slender fingers. 

They played together for a while, Grantaire improvising melodies and lyrics over the top of the basic chords. Enjolras nodded seriously and scribbled down notation in his trusty manuscript paper pad.   
“So for the chorus we can use the same four chords but just mix the order up,” Grantaire said, strumming once across the neck of the guitar.

 

Enjolras sighed and spectacularly collapsed onto the keyboard, a dissonant crash echoing throughout the room.

“You alright, Enjolras?”

Enjolras merely groaned.

With a gentle clunk, Grantaire placed his guitar down and wheeled over to Enjolras on his chair.

“Enjolras,” he sung, drawing his knees to his chin. “Is it all getting too much?” Enjolras rolled his head and sent another chord ringing.

“I don’t mean to sound dramatic,” Enjolras said dramatically, “But I would literally rather be shot twenty-seven times than write a pop song.”

“Ah. Not a great state of mind to be in.” He wheeled away and spun slowly in the centre of his room, staring at the ceiling. “It’s not exactly what you had in mind, but instead of getting shot, we could get _shots._ ” He laughed, the sound lovely and carefree and curling around Enjolras’ edges like smoke.

“I never drink alcohol when I’m composing,” Enjolras said, drawing to his full height and stretching out his limbs.

“Mozart did.”

“ _What_?” Enjolras said after a beat.

“I’m just kidding, I have no idea what Wolfgang’s drinking habits were. I know mine, though, and there’s a lovely happy medium of being just the tiniest bit wasted and creating amazing stuff.”

“Does it still sound good the morning after?”

“ _Ahh_!” Grantaire said in a stage-yell, “I didn’t want to hear the voice of reason tonight.” Enjolras’ lips broke into a smile, the phenomenon looking like sunshine on his face. “Okay so both getting shot and getting shots are out of the question, then. I guess we’ll just have to carry on composing.” He put a hand on Enjolras’ arm, his face edging a little closer than expected. “It gets better, I promise.”

“Stop,” Enjolras said with a groan, “I’m getting war flashbacks to bullying in high school.”

Grantaire paused. Where he had made to move back to his guitar, he turned to face Enjolras again, perplexity playing over his features.

“Bullying? _You?_ ” he gaped, “I’m aghast! Kids can find fault in Apollo reincarnate. No wonder my high school days were doomed.”

“I came out at like the age of seven, I was a pretty easy target.”

Enjolras noticed Grantaire’s eyes shift over him.

“Seven, wow! It took me ten years longer to get the courage,” Grantaire shrugged, “People were still idiots about it.”

“Oh,” Enjolras said, realising that he had automatically assumed ultimate straightness after hearing Grantaire’s rumoured popularity with women. The silence permeated for seconds too long and he added, “Right! Pop music!”

 

~*~

Enjolras kind of hated to admit it, but the song was actually going pretty well and not sounding as horrific as he had imagined it would. Sure, its harmony was brain-clawingly annoying, and the lyrics eye-rollingly inane, but it wasn’t _that_ bad.

“Honey, I’m home!” came a loud voice from outside Grantaire’s door. “Have you seen Claque? He has stolen my tobacco, piece of - ” Éponine barged through, “Oh,” she said, catching sight of Enjolras and backing out. “Oh!” she said again and re-entered. “It’s you! Enjolras, darling! Sorry I just saw the blonde hair and thought R was trying to impress a girl with his beautiful guitar _fingering_.”

“That joke wasn’t funny the first time you made it,” Grantaire said, barely looking up from his guitar. He executed a perfect, intricate riff. 

“Nah, it’s like a fine wine. It gets even better each time.”

“Not how wine works,” Grantaire deadpanned. “And besides, you laugh, but girls love it! They think ‘ _ooh wow, look how long and quick his beautiful fingers are._..’ and imagine them tangled in their hair as I take on the role of their ravishing lover.”

“Well... Is it working Enjolras?” Éponine asked.

Enjolras froze a little bit. The thought hadn’t crossed his mind, but... he turned his gaze to Grantaire’s fingers.

“Don’t tease, Ép,” Grantaire said, a mischief oozing from his every pore.

“I just don’t feel as special now that I know it’s not just me you’ve seduced with your fingers,” Enjolras said, pushing his lower lip out.

Éponine cackled and sloped further into the room, socks padding across the hardboard flooring. “What are you boys up to this fine evening?”

“Writing pop,” Grantaire said with a flicker of his eyebrows.

Éponine’s face suddenly contorted and she looked at Enjolras in disbelief. “Huh, didn’t expect that from you, babe.”

“I’m writing his first pop song with him,” Grantaire interjected, “Popping his pop cherry, it could be said.”

“It _could_ be said,” Éponine laughed, “But it _shouldn’t_ be.” She looked at Enjolras with a grimace, “I’m sorry you have to work with this loser.”

“Ugh, get out,” Grantaire said quickly, humour dancing in his eyes, “Can you not see we’re in the middle of a very _serious_ and _important_ task.”

“Yes,” Enjolras said, echoing Grantaire’s levity, “He’s still in the middle of trying to seduce me with his fingers... It’s very important _and_ serious.”

 

Both Éponine and Grantaire laughed raucously. Enjolras glowed with warmth.

 

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Éponine stood and made to leave, she leant into Enjolras conspiratorially and mock-whispered, “’Montparnasse’s hands are much nicer.”

“Lies!” Grantaire scoffed, “Begone you deceitful scoundrel!”  He shot a look at Enjolras, “She really is lying, Montparnasse’s flowery fingers have _nothing_ on mine.”

“Don’t let him hear you call them that. It’s floral, darling, not flowery. Much more trendy.” Éponine traced Grantaire’s epic eye roll and added, “Okay, okay, I’m going. See you later!”

Grantaire’s head bowed as he laughed to himself, features shadowed by his dark hair falling forwards. “I love her,” he said, fingers sprawling effortlessly over a complex guitar melody.

Enjolras tore his eyes from Grantaire’s hands, licking his suddenly very dry lips. “We could perform this live in class, if you’d like...” Enjolras said. Grantaire looked at him, eyes calculating.

“Would you want me in your class?”

“What do you mean?” A surprised giggle fell from Enjolras’ lips.

“I mean you’re a classical _god_ and I’m sure all the teachers are in love with you. I am a mere mortal second year who’s honestly just a bit mediocre.”

“ _Mediocre_? Are you _kidding_ , Grantaire?”

 

What followed was a shift of energy that was hard to describe. The look that the two young men shared suddenly became heavier, the silence felt louder and Grantaire, usually the master of words, couldn’t form a sentence.

 

“Ha,” he said loudly, a hint of blush creeping across his cheekbones. “That’s how my parents liked to describe me,” he joked, stretching out languidly and dragging a hand through his hair. “Should we break? Do you want a snack or a drink or something?” Grantaire stood and threw his head back to elongate his muscles, only the way his eyes flickered shut and his lips slid apart made it look almost obscene.

“Do you have coffee?” Enjolras asked, trying to look anywhere else in the room.

“We have cheap granules, if that’s cool with you.” Grantaire laughed raucously, “It’s okay, darling, I can see from the terror in your eyes that cheap granules are not cool with you. Tea?”

“Do you have soya milk?”

“Oh you sweet boy,” Grantaire couldn’t stop laughing, “I don’t even know if I have regular milk that’s in-date. I think we have a box of green tea somewhere... Are you a green tea kinda guy?”

“Absolutely,” Enjolras said, “The extent of me being a _green tea kinda guy_ is actually quite concerning.”

“Well I’m afraid I’m quite a bad influence, I can only feed your addiction. One green tea coming up!”

 

While Grantaire was out of the room, Enjolras properly looked around, eyes drifting across the debris that was scattered. A grubby looking mug held an array of drumsticks and paintbrushes, loose guitar strings were coiled in a messy pile, a precarious stack of records balanced an old gramophone. Pictures were tacked to the wall, stopping abruptly where Grantaire’s arms couldn’t reach.

 

Enjolras’ eyes caught a series of photographs of Grantaire and Jehan. In one picture they were meditating, the others doing intricate looking yoga poses: if joy could be captured, these pictures were evidence of it. Wide, lazy smiles and dopey shared glances were rife throughout the set.

 

“Here we are!” Grantaire said, carefully cupping a steaming mug. “One green tea! I’m going to go out for a smoke, want to join?”

Enjolras, took the hot tea in his hands. Grantaire cracked open the door, throwing a backwards glance at him. Enjolras felt suddenly very warm, and reckoned the cool air would do him good, second-hand smoke lung damage be damned. “Sure,” he said. Grantaire beamed, and Enjolras wondered how a word as simple as ‘sure’ could illicit such a response. He liked it. “ _Sure_ ,” he repeated, and followed Grantaire into the cold.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> if musical metaphors and a bonding, not quite-grown-into-their-adulthood Enjolras and Grantaire is your thing, buckle yourself in... 
> 
> please let me know what you think!


	3. Verses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's wooing, and revelry, and all sorts of things that don't quite suit Enjolras' sensibilities.

“So, are you conducting at any upcoming concerts?” Grantaire asked, lit only by a flickering outdoor lamp.

“Not anything official... I’m performing a cello solo and some ensemble stuff at the showcase next week, though,” their faces were blistered by the heat from the tea.

“Wait... What _is_ your main instrument?” Grantaire filled his lungs with smoke, “Can you play the whole orchestra?” he joked.

“Pretty much,” Enjolras scuffed his toes against the floor, “Pushy parents...” he paused, “I’m grateful, though. I don’t know where I’d be without music.”

“Do you not think you’d have found it anyway?” Grantaire asked, eyes closed, lips parted.

“What? Music?” Enjolras tucked his hands under his jacket to warm them. “Who knows? I’d probably have ended up as a lawyer, or a banker or something.”

“What... like ninety percent of the Saint-Michel graduates?” he slumped his head to the side and traced a bird through the sky with a half-amused tilt to his mouth. “Anyway, I don’t believe that for a second. You’d have found it... it’s who you are.”

Enjolras watched him closely, mouth suddenly dry.

“Do you want...?” Grantaire asked, tilting the cigarette towards him.

“Oh no... I don’t smoke.”

“Tobacco?”

“Anything,” Enjolras answered, lungs recoiling at the scent.

“Man of strong morals,” he said, yawning slightly. “I’m afraid I have none.” He kicked the end of his cigarette into an overflowing pile. “Let’s finish this masterpiece.”

A laugh bubbled in Enjolras’ chest and burst through, clattering loudly in the patch of cobblestones.

“Grantaire,” he asked, and the boy turned around with a look in his eyes, as if he hadn’t expected Enjolras to even know his name. “Why are you even _at_ Saint-Michel’s?” He stood, hands still warming beneath his arms. “Surely there’s a contemporary school of music you could study at?”

“Um,” said Grantaire, turning slightly red. Enjolras couldn’t tell whether he was blushing, or if it were just the sunset bouncing off his cheeks. “I’m performing at the showcase next week, so maybe, if you stick around, you’ll see why.”

They stepped back inside, the air gracefully far warmer.

“What does that mean?” Enjolras asked, itching for Grantaire’s answer. “Do you play like the _oboe_ or something?”

“You’ll see...” Grantaire lifted a corner of his mouth and Enjolras inexplicably had to drop his gaze, a strange feeling stirring in his chest. “Can’t give away all my mystery at once,” he leaned in, “My mystery is all I have going for me.”

“Very mysterious,” said Enjolras in a small voice, laugh curling the edge of his breath. His senses snapped from the moment as a shrill ringing screeched from Grantaire’s phone.

 

“Oh,” the sound poured from his lips like carelessly spilled water, his eyes glazed. “I didn’t realise it was so late.” He threw his phone roughly onto the bed and stretched his limbs out.

“Plans for the evening?” Enjolras asked, hovering by the keyboard, fingers longing for the keys.

“I forgot all about it...” Grantaire cursed, grabbing a fresh shirt from his wardrobe, patterned with an unexpectedly intricate Victorian design in forest green. “I could call it off...” but the words eked from him, as if cancelling his plans was not on his mind at all.

“No, of course not... Um... I’ll just...” Enjolras cleared his throat, making for his scarf. “Nice shirt.”

“It’s my wooing shirt,” Grantaire laughed, mirth smeared in his eyes.

“Oh, you’re going on a date?” Enjolras said with a smile, shouldering his coat.

Grantaire laughed again, shaking his hair out of his eyes. “A date...” he made quick work of the buttons on the shirt he was wearing. “Sure... let’s call it that.”

With a swift movement, he slithered from the material of his top and threw it onto a lump of clothing.  Enjolras caught a glimpse of his russet shoulders, marked with delicate black ink and masses of freckles before he turned to the door, cheeks heating.

“I’ll head off then,” he said, blinking a little _too_ rapidly.

“One sec,” Grantaire said, “Catch!”

Enjolras was forced to confront the image of a half-shirted Grantaire and apologised fervently, missing the memory stick soaring towards him and hearing it clatter by his feet.

“Sorry for what? I have no shame regarding the human form...” he quirked an eyebrow.

“You sound like Jehan.”

“Jehan sounds like _me..._ They used to do life modelling for me.”

“ _Huh_?” Enjolras gaped.

“Yeah, I have the pictures somewhere. They’re very artful... Do you want to see?”

“I feel like I would have to ask Jehan first...”

“You’re _such_ a sweet boy,” Grantaire said in a deeply southern accent. “Didn’t you see Jehan in that exhibition where they stood naked in a forest or something?”

“Oh...” Enjolras recalled it well, “The Adam and Eve thing. It was certainly an interesting take on religious gender non-conformity...” He tilted his head, “I think they still get death threats sometimes.”

Grantaire threw his head back in a laugh, and Enjolras wished he could throw such a glorious laugh around with Grantaire’s ease.

“Hang on, I’ll show you out.” He bumped open the door with his hip, towering a myriad of plates and empty cups in his hands.

“Thanks for doing this with me,” Enjolras said, voice shatteringly polite, “Seriously, Grantaire, I’m so grateful.”

 

Grantaire grazed his shoulder up into a shrug and brushed Enjolras’ comment away with finesse. “Ép,” he said, slamming the dirty dishes onto the table before her. She peered up from a clunky Mac, headphones nestled in her hair. She gazed at him briefly before her eyebrows slanted downwards.

“What’s with the wooing shirt?” she asked, dragging the headphones from her ears.

“Are you going to be here all night?” he asked, grabbing an apple and sinking his teeth into it.

“Yeah...?” she said after a pause, “Ugh, don’t make me leave,” she complained, “I’m literally in the middle of producing right now.”

“No, its fine,” Grantaire’s eyes were burning hazel under the setting sun, “I’ll be back in a few hours. Just tell Claque if I find any more of his masks, or creepy merchandise in my room again, he’s banned from ever coming here again. I’ve had enough. He’s doing it on purpose now, I swear...” Grantaire looked to Enjolras with a dark shade in his gaze, “I found an ornamental dagger in my pillowcase last night,” he said in way of explanation. “It’s getting beyond weird now.”

“He does it to show affection,” Éponine said, “Like a cat.”

“That’s even worse!” Grantaire said, “Like at least ten billion times worse! Tell him there is more to life than aesthetic.”

“Try to tell that to anyone in the band, my dear,” Éponine laughed. “Well, have fun guys!”

Enjolras blinked.

“ _Éponine!_ ” Grantaire hissed, shaking his head frenetically. “The shirt’s not for him.”

The moment stretched out and Éponine let out a giggle, collapsing her head onto her forearms. “Oops!” she snorted, “I _totally_ thought you were gonna...”

“Why would I make us go all the way back to his house?” Grantaire said, smirk playing on his face, “I’m a good host, Ép. _You_ would be kicked out.”

“This is weird...” Enjolras interjected, feeling a little flushed.

“You’re right. This is weird, and it’s all _your_ fault,” Grantaire said, pulling a face at Éponine. “Right, I better get ready.”

With a spin, Grantaire reached their front door and presented it to Enjolras with a bow. “It has been a pleasure to work with you, Enjolras. When’s the lesson we have to perform in?”

“Monday at nine,” Enjolras said, “With Valjean.”

Grantaire groaned. “Very devious of you to tell me that at the very end... _Monday at nine_! Okay, okay, fine. I’ll see you then. Maybe I’ll catch you before to practise.” Grantaire’s eyes were drifting away, “Seriously, though, we should hang sometime. Courf seems really cool.”

“Oh, yeah,” Enjolras said, “He really is.”

“You don’t sound convinced,” Grantaire joked. Enjolras eyed the pattern of his shirt.

“No, he is! Anyway, I don’t want to keep you... Enjoy your... thing.”

“Thanks,” Grantaire said, giving another laugh, but peering through narrowed eyes. “Are you alright?”  

“Hm?” Enjolras started, “Oh sorry... just have Beethoven on my mind.”

“What?” Grantaire asked, “Well... Good luck with that?” he leant forwards and briefly embraced Enjolras, kissing the air beside his cheeks casually. “See you later. Safe travels!”

Enjolras travelled back on the metro with a strange, roiling sensation shifting in his stomach. He closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and let the haunting melodies of Shostakovich ensnare his senses for the ride.

 

~*~

“House meeting!” shouted Combeferre, who perhaps called house meetings far more than necessary.

“What’s wrong now?” asked Courf with a playful groan, “Did I eat your last avocado again?”

“The issue to discuss is a certain Courfeyrac’s attendance in this household,” said Combeferre, opening his journal and scratching down a title. He flicked to another page and nodded, “You’ve been absent five out of the past seven nights...”

Courfeyrac lounged back on the sofa, letting his mass of dark curls flop over his eyes, “Sorry, dad.”

“I feel like you shouldn’t be paying full rent,” Combeferre said, pushing his glasses up his nose. “But... there _is_ a way to rectify your missteps.”

“You can tell he’s going to be the most intense teacher in five years time,” Courfeyrac said with an eye roll to Enjolras.

“No backchat,” Enjolras quipped, quietly letting his fingers drift over the strings of his harp.

The three of them laughed in tangent.

“Seriously though, you have to give an opinion on my dissertation,” Combeferre said, throwing a chunky booklet into his friend’s hands.

“No!” Courfeyrac elongated, letting the vowel ring out through the flat. “Why am I subjected to such cruel punishment for taking advantage of my youth?”

“Love you so much!” Combeferre said, giving Enjolras a roguish wink. “We’ve sorted _him_ out,” he said in a mock whisper, ignoring Courfeyrac’s dramatic complaints. “What’s wrong, Enj?” 

“Hm?” Enjolras leant his forehead against the gilded edge of his harp.

“You’re playing Tchaikovsky again.”

“What does that mean?” Enjolras sighed, stilling his fingers.

“Darling,” Courfeyrac rolled his eyes, “The last time you looked this mopey was when I said I didn’t like Bach that much.”

Enjolras instantly frowned. “You should be expelled from Saint-Michel’s, you heathen.”

“Stop deflecting,” Combeferre interjected, “Do I have to call the second house meeting of the night?”

“Do you guys think I’m not living in the student life as much as I could be?”

“Absolutely,” Courf said.

“One thousand percent,” Combeferre added, “But since when have you wanted to act like a _student_?”

“Has that nasty boy Grantaire been corrupting you?” Courfeyrac asked, “I’ll be having words with him.”

“I think you might have a chance with him,” Enjolras tilted his head, watching the flare of interest in Courfeyrac’s eyes.

“Nah,” he said after a moment, “It would break Jehan and I’s agreement. No sharing.”

Enjolras licked his cracked lips and his eyebrows folded. “Jehan and Grantaire...? They were a thing?”

Courfeyrac laughed lazily. “You know Jehan... Free love... There’s literally no-one in that circle that Jehan hasn’t slept with... Well, apart from Gueulemer... he’s painfully straight. We’re both trying to see who can crack him.”

“You’re awful, Courf,” Combeferre said, “Leave the poor heterosexual alone.”

“Are you going out tomorrow night, Courf?” Enjolras asked, the words tasting brassy on his tongue.

“Dunno,” he turned his wide-eyed gaze to Combeferre, “Can I go out tomorrow, dad, please?”

Combeferre grimaced. “Stop calling me dad.”

“Daddy says yes,” Courf said with an exaggerated wink.

“House meeting!” Combeferre shouted, mirth in his eyes, “The issue on the table: never do that again.” He shut his notebook and stalked away.

“Well, I’ll come with you.”

“Ooh, _Enjolras_!” Courfeyrac said, scandalised, “On a school night as well! _You little rebel!_ ”

 

~*~

After university the next day, Enjolras contemplated himself in the mirror, red shirt as stark as blood against his skin. He buttoned it to the top, but unfastened the button closest to his neck. He imagined calling it his ‘wooing shirt’ to literally anybody and almost turned as scarlet as the material. With a glimpse at his alarm, he noticed the lateness of the hour and snapped at Courfeyrac to hurry up.

“ _Me_?” Courfeyrac gaped, “I’ve been ready for the past four hours,” he exaggerated, still shirtless and barefoot. “I’m not the one raunchily exposing a slither of neck and blushing at myself.”

“That’s not-” Enjolras blushed, “That wasn’t what I was doing!”

“ _Gosh_! I’ve heard that Enjolras is a _floozy_ , you know?” Courf called to no one in particular, “I once caught a glimpse of his ankles!”

“ _His ankles_?!” Combeferre called from a distant room, sounding aghast.

“You both are the worst,” Enjolras said, still flushed. Courfeyrac grinned and ruffled a hand through Enjolras’ mass of blonde curls.

“Come on, you harlot,” he tiptoed to smack an affectionate kiss to Enjolras’ cheek, “We have some revelry to revel in.”

 

By Courfeyrac’s standards, revelry was measured in how blisteringly high one could become.

“That’s not what I’m saying, and you know it,” he drawled, after they had arrived at the party, passing a joint to Jehan, arm crossing over Enjolras’ chest as he did so. “I just think that if the moon was real then it wouldn’t be such a symbol of mystery... I’m just saying... who looks at the moon and isn’t a _little bit_ creeped out?”

“You get creeped out by the moon?” Joly asked, head resting on Musichetta’s lap.

“Like...” said Courf, eyes drifting shut, “Like just a tiny bit...” a small cough rattled in his throat, “I just don’t trust it.”

“I think the moon is lovely,” Jehan said. Joly peered up and shared an eye-roll with Enjolras. Joly was the first violinist in the Saint-Michel orchestra, and had dealt with the whole bunch of orchestral stoners more than Enjolras had had the will to.

“You think everything is lovely, Jehan,” Enjolras said. Jehan looked at him with starry, brown eyes and slumped against the column of his neck.

Then, amidst the smoke haze of the room, time seemed to unfold far quicker than it usually did, and Jehan had led Enjolras to their room, to show him the life paintings Grantaire had mentioned.

“Yeah,” Enjolras said, head a little fuzzy, “Very artful... he said they were.” The pictures captured Jehan as they looked in the current moment, lazy-eyed and oozing contentedness. “They’re incredible, Jehan.”

“Tell Grantaire... he was the one who did the hard work.” 

 

Enjolras was not sure what came over him, but he ducked his head and felt the edge of Jehan’s lip between his own. He felt a hand leap to the back of his head, and the warm curl of fingers lace themselves through his hair. Jehan’s lips feel like a revolution – Enjolras had never kissed someone so well versed in the art of kissing. The lips on his neck made him gasp for air. He contemplated how long it had been since the skin of his neck had been worshipped so... too long. A year ago with the pretentious cellist that was too attractive for words, (Enjolras had called it off when the sex had been the only part that didn’t bore him half to death.)

“Jehan,” he mouthed, feeling mind-spinningly blissful. His hand dropped to Jehan’s waist, feeling for a seam of material. His fingers searched blindly, tracing the edge of Jehan’s hips, increasingly frantic. Enjolras broke away with a tut and stared at Jehan’s attire.

“It’s a romper,” Jehan said in explanation. Then, as Enjolras moved his hands to the zip on Jehan’s back, they said, “What are you doing, Enjolras?” Enjolras pressed his lips to Jehan’s collarbone, who laughed breathily and batted his head away. “What’s gotten into you?”

“I’m looking for my wilder side,” Enjolras said, eyes dark.

“I’m not going to sleep with you,” Jehan said lightly, “I thought this was just a friendly make-out session.”

“You sleep with everyone,” Enjolras said, drawing back and resenting the whine that had infiltrated into his tone. In lieu of offense, Jehan merely snorted with a grin.

“Look, I’m down for casual flings aplenty, but _you_ , my friend, are _not_.”

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”                                    

“No,” Jehan shrugged, “You wouldn’t be here if you were.”

“That makes no sense,” Enjolras frowned, “Your pseudo-deep doesn’t work on me.”

“Come on, Enj,” Jehan said, patting Enjolras good-naturedly on the chest, “If you _actually_ wanted a hook-up, you wouldn’t have come to the one person you thought would never turn you down... I’m sorry, but I am just not dealing with the emotional nonsense you are sure to bring.”

“ _What?_ ” he gaped, mouth dropping open.

“You’re a drama queen, Enjolras – you can’t even deny it...” they smiled, “Let’s not do this.” Jehan tucked the sketches back into place and stretched out their arms. “Wow,” they said with a hazy blink, “I am too high right now.”

“You always are,” muttered Enjolras.

“Don’t get grumpy with me, darling,” Jehan said, “I still love you.”

Enjolras flushed a little, still not as open with his words as Jehan could be. “Yeah, and I love you as well. Besides, I’m not grumpy with you, I’m grumpy with myself.”

“ _Enjolras_ ,” Jehan tutted, “Don’t mope... I can shower you with positive affirmations, if you’d like... You’re the loveliest boy I’ve ever met, anyone would be blessed to have you, and you’re as beautiful as the sun itself... I am at once blinded by you yet cannot take my eyes from you... happy now?”

Enjolras couldn’t stop the smile that spread across his mouth. Jehan laughed and pressed a friendly kiss to his lips.

“Ugh, I’m so embarrassed,” Enjolras said, covering his face.

“About what?” Jehan said, smile lazy, “I’m so high, I’ve forgotten already.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank ya for reading! I'm so looking forward to the big reveal next chapter hehehe!
> 
> Poor, sweet, clueless Enjolras I love him. 
> 
> let me know what you think - your comments keep me alive!


	4. Development

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dreaded performance arrives sooner than expected - and Enjolras's world is shattered when he discovers Grantaire's mysterious secret.

The evening of the showcase had crashed into Enjolras far quicker than he had expected.

“Listen, guys,” he said, rather snappily, tapping his baton against a desk. The orchestra reluctantly turned their eyes to him. “Our slot is in twenty minutes, and we haven’t even run the whole piece through, yet.”

“We’ll be fine,” Jehan offered, “This always happens.”

“From the top,” Enjolras said, raising the conductor’s baton and falling into the music, blissfully and all at once. The tension slid off his shoulders in silken swathes.

By the time they had arranged themselves onstage, the orchestra looked as slick as it always did – a sleek ensemble in sharp black and white. Enjolras paused, the silence in a full auditorium a luxury to him, before lifting a hand into the air, a vitriolic end to the anticipation. Mahler’s symphony hadn’t sounded better, and Enjolras half-hated the orchestra for their ability to slack for weeks and forge near perfection at the final moment. 

As the last notes rang out, he gave them all a proudly exasperated smile, before sweeping into a bow, beaming radiantly at the audience. Haloed in stage lights, eyes euphoric and ablaze, he was the perfectly rendered painting of a saint. He bowed again, the applause thrumming through his veins.

They filed from the stage and Enjolras opened his lips to whisper a congratulations to Joly, but froze. In the bleak shadows, part-obscured by the black curtains of the backstage area, was undeniably Grantaire. Looking fiercely ahead, he missed Enjolras’ gaze, and as he stepped forwards into the blazing lights, Enjolras faltered and retreated further into the curtains, hidden in the folds of darkness.

Grantaire looked neater than Enjolras had seen him, dressed in all black, his skin freshly shaven, his hair swept into manageable waves. His black shirtsleeves were buttoned at the elbow. Enjolras wished _his_ forearms were as shapely as Grantaire’s, and then he wished such thoughts were not rushing through his head.

Grantaire stood centre stage, as still as the morning, his lips drifting open as his piano accompaniment began.

Enjolras – who never, _ever_ swore– nearly cursed aloud.

_Opera?_

Grantaire could sing _opera?_

The initial wave of shock rolled away, allowing Enjolras to bathe in the loveliness of Grantaire’s voice – and it truly was _beyond_ lovely. His tone felt as comforting as slipping into a warm bath in winter, at times as sweet as birdsong, at others as mellow as a summer afternoon. Enjolras appreciated the beauty and once again fell into his state of shock. _Grantaire was singing opera?_ The ineffably cool Grantaire, who sung pop music while crouched over a guitar, also sang in perfect Italian, eyes so drowned in passion that they fluttered shut like butterfly wings. The scruffy pop Grantaire was a thousand miles away from opera Grantaire: Enjolras could not put the two personas side by side.

Enjolras usually considered himself quite eloquent, but the only two thoughts flooding his head in cycle were ‘Oh my god, _what_?’ followed by ‘Oh my god, _wow!’_ He was gawping, but he couldn’t close his mouth no matter how he tried. Part of him wanted to step onstage to ask Grantaire _what the hell_ was going on. How did he not know about this? He was the fount of knowledge of the schools musician resource pool, and _Grantaire_ had slipped through his fingers?

He hit a high note, his voice soaring over the top and resting lightly above the audience’s reach like the beautiful wavering of a hummingbird feathers. A strange sensation clawed in Enjolras’ chest, and he was surprised to feel his eyes glazing. It wasn’t that he didn’t cry at classical music, because he certainly did... often... worryingly often, Courf said. The surprise stemmed from the fact that it was _Grantaire_ making him cry with the intensity of emotions pouring from his song.

The song drew a climactic, pulse-stopping conclusion, and Enjolras had to quickly blink the tears from his eyes. He stepped forwards and the pair met in the wings.

“Um... Enjolras?” Grantaire frowned, “Hello?”

“Oh my god,” Enjolras said, hand pressed to his breastbone, “That was physically the most incredible thing I’ve heard today.”

“Don’t speak too soon. I was only the third performance of the night,” he retorted with a smile, “But thank you.”

“What the hell, Grantaire?” Enjolras gaped, “How did I not know about this?”

“Surprised?”

“I feel like I’ve had an out-of-body experience.”

Grantaire grinned wickedly. “A lot of people have said I have that effect... But... it’s not usually the singing they’re talking about.”

“Okay this may seem crazy,” Enjolras said, his words broken by an anxious first-year student barging past with a tuba.

“Should we leave the wings before we get trampled by your orchestra?”

“Can you star in my opera?” Enjolras burst, while they were still barely offstage.

“You’re writing an opera?” Grantaire’s eyes widened and he tilted his head. “I didn’t realise you wrote for opera?”

“Yeah of course I do,” Enjolras said, which was half-true. He _had_ written several operatic pieces, which had all received excellent marks in class. To say he was in the process of writing a full opera would have been a mammoth exaggeration (or, in other words, a lie). “Yes,” he nodded, “I’m writing a full opera at the moment, and I just realised you would be perfect for the main role.”

“Wow,” Grantaire said, “I’m... honoured!” He nudged Enjolras into the corridor to move him out of the way of an angry string quartet. “Sure, send me some of the music and I’ll give it a listen.”

“Enjolras,” Combeferre snapped, dashing up and thrusting a flute into Enjolras’ hands, “You’re on next... _Did you forget your solo?_ Get onstage.”

“Good luck,” Grantaire smiled, “And send me something as soon as poss!”

“Okay,” Enjolras croaked, flute hanging listlessly from his fingers, “I will.”

He immediately turned and slunk back into the wings, rolling his eyes into his skull and letting out a tiny moan. He was _such an idiot!_

 

The quartet finished and he glided onto the stage, the image of elegance and poise. His composition flew from his fingers. To the audience he looked cradled in the arms of his own music, but his brain was screaming raucously, ‘ _NOW YOU HAVE TO WRITE AN OPERA!_ ’

Somehow, he survived to the end of his piece, earning a delighted applause, and further through the rest of his seven performances. Usually after nights such as this, he was filled with a lovely golden glow, that felt like lazy sun-drenched Sunday mornings, but the subway ride back was wrought in silence.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac were bickering light-heartedly, tracing the way back through Paris to their apartment.

“Home sweet home!” Courf said, “Can someone make me a tea? I’m too tired to move.” He yawned and tumbled onto the sofa.

“That’s because you haven’t slept in over 48 hours,” Combeferre tutted, “Go to bed. I’ll bring you a peppermint tea through.”

“I love you,” Courf said drowsily, drifting into sleep on the couch. Combeferre rolled his eyes fondly at Enjolras.

“Do you want a tea?” he asked, “Are you alright?”

“A green tea would be amazing.”

“Are you okay?” Combeferre repeated, frowning into the tea cupboard. “We’re out of green. Oolong?”

“Sure,” Enjolras said. “Combeferre, do you want to write an opera with me? Like an opera that has to be in pretty good shape by the end of the week?”

“I mean... yeah...” Combeferre grinned, “I’ve wanted to write an opera for ages. I have an amazing piece for a soprano main character that I’ve been meaning to use.”

“No, it has to have a male lead.” Enjolras flipped open his laptop and immediately began to transcribe some musical ideas floating in his head. “Based on Dionysus.”

“The Greek god of wine and pleasure?”

Enjolras thought of Grantaire. “Exactly,” he said, “I want it to be scandalous for opera, I want it to be something brand new; something fresh.”

“Pretty ambitious for an opera you had no intention of creating a few hours ago.”

“Who am I to say where inspiration comes from, Combeferre? I had an idea, and thus it will become a reality. We can work on it separately tonight and compare notes tomorrow. Deal?”

“Only if you read my dissertation,” Combeferre said, sticking out a hand.

Enjolras groaned. “ _Fine,_ ” he said, accepting the handshake and rushing to his piano to compose.

 

~*~

The next time he saw Grantaire, at 8:50 on Monday morning, it felt like somewhat a revelation.

Enjolras saw him in the distance, huddled against the cold like a sleeping lover, hand curled around a cigarette.

“Oh,” Enjolras said to Combeferre, “I think Grantaire would make an excellent Dionysus...”

“Grantaire?” Combeferre said, “Does he even sing opera?”

“ _Does he even sing opera?_ Did you not see him at the recital?” Enjolras gaped, “Oh my God.”

“No I didn’t. Hang on, did you write this whole thi-”

Enjolras interrupted, “I can introduce you guys, he’s performing with me in Valjean’s class now.”

Combeferre frowned, staring at Enjolras like he expected an answer, but Enjolras merely beamed, cutting through the frigid air and embracing Grantaire.

“Grantaire!” Enjolras said, “How are you feeling? Ready for my first public foray into pop?”

“You’re making this seem slightly voyeuristic,” Grantaire laughed, “And you seem pretty chipper on the eve of the death of your integrity.”

“My integrity can die hand-in-hand with yours. There _was_ a reason I didn’t want to do this alone,” he said in mirth, “Anyway, this is my friend Combeferre. He’s the guy I’m writing the opera I told you about with.”

“Oh,” the dawn of realisation bloomed on Grantaire’s face, “The mysterious opera! Well it’s lovely to meet you. Courfeyrac mentions you a lot.”

Combeferre smiled and extended a graceful hand. “Pleasure,” he said, glaring at Enjolras the moment that Grantaire’s eyes averted. “There’s _such_ an interesting story about how the opera started, actually. Maybe Enjolras will tell you one day, it’s not a tale to be missed.”

“Let’s focus on the pop, shall we?” Enjolras beamed even more, “The opera can wait.” He widened his eyes at Combeferre.

“Oh can it?” Combeferre said, turning his gaze back to Grantaire, “Enjolras has never said it ‘can wait’ before, I swear I haven’t slept since we started the project. But... at the same time, it feels like we started just a few days ago...”

Grantaire laughed good-naturedly, unaware of the truth behind the statement, “I can imagine he’s quite a strict composer to work under..."

Enjolras laughed overly loudly, causing both pairs of eyes to turn to him. Where Grantaire looked confused, Combeferre had suspicion pouring from his every pore. “Both such jokers! Alright, Grantaire, we better make a move; we shouldn’t be late for Valjean.”

Combeferre slouched off to the weekly music test he had with Professor Javert.

In room 401C, Jean Valjean looked pleased to see Enjolras, and his smile grew wider at the sight of Grantaire.

“Good morning, gents,” he said, “Congratulations on the recital. Enjolras, your cello solo truly encapsulated you as a performer. And the flute solo... _simply divine_! Is that one of your audition pieces?”

“Not really, sir... it could be, though.” He turned his gaze to Grantaire, “Did you hear Grantaire’s take on Handel?”

“Of course,” Valjean smiled, “Very artful. But this does pose the question... what are you doing in my class at nine AM in the morning Monsieur Grantaire?” he had a bright sparkle in his eyes, “If I remember correctly, you made less than 25% of your nine AM starts last year.”

“You could say I’m turning over a new leaf,” Grantaire grinned, “Couldn’t let Enjolras down... We have a pop hit to perform!”

Valjean turned his gaze back to Enjolras, thick eyebrows raised. “ _Really?_ ” he pressed his lips together, “I can’t say I expected _this_ , honestly. I expected jazz pop with a thousand chords.”

“Nope,” Grantaire said, “I made him stick to only four! He got pretty grouchy.”

“I did not,” Enjolras lied, “I can’t believe you had such little faith in me, sir!”

“Alright, lads?” Courfeyrac said, strolling into the lecture hall and taking a seat, “Johnny boy?”

Valjean narrowed his eyes and sipped slowly from his coffee. “I wish I could still give out detentions,” he said, flashing Courfeyrac a grin.

“Why?” Courf said, with a roguish wink, “Are you that desperate to spend more time with me, sir?”

“Courfeyrac, you’re going to send me into early retirement,” Valjean chuckled. “Alright now, everybody, take a seat! We’re going to be listening to some compositions today! Who is up first?”

When it was Enjolras’ turn to play, he slid behind the electric piano, fingers stretching experimentally behind the keys. “Okay,” he said, “Grantaire is singing and playing the guitar. It’s a song we wrote together to fulfil a pop brief.” He caught eyes with Grantaire and they shared a smile. He gave a minute nod and they began to play.

Music tended to electrify Enjolras, and although he kind of, mostly (although _not entirely)_ hated the pop song, while playing he felt the familiar crackle of energy. Each time the pair locked eyes, the momentary glance was more intense, and when Enjolras went slightly wild with improvisation, Grantaire shook his head a fraction, slowing Enjolras’ hand. Within shared music, communication could be the easiest thing in the world. By the end of the three minutes, Enjolras’ whole body felt a little raw and exhausted.

A scattering of applause and laughter alit the room.

“Wow,” Valjean said, “Nice work, boys. You’ve written a decent pop song, there. Not sure about the lyrical theme...” he twitched an eyebrow, “I have a feeling it was Enjolras behind that choice. But overall, a really strong piece. _Really_ good work, Enjolras, in getting out of your comfort zone. And thank you, Grantaire, for helping him. Alright! Any feedback?”

The few pop-literate students gave some critical lyrical advice, tiny details about syllables and rhymes, while the classically brained classmates could not get over their longing for more interesting chords.

“That’s the way pop goes, though,” Valjean offered, “In today’s charts; you just aren’t going to find any augmented or diminished chords. All right, we have to get onto the next performance, but thank you Enjolras, Grantaire. Let’s have another round of applause...” he smiled, “If you want to take that guitar back to the storage room... that would be great.” 

 

It was a task that required just one person, but despite this, Enjolras followed Grantaire out of the classroom.

“Thanks... you really saved my life, there.”

“Resuscitation by pop,” Grantaire smiled, “You should try it out more often.”

Perhaps Enjolras was hearing things, but it definitely sounded like an invitation from Grantaire’s tongue. He felt boldness on his lips. “With you?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire’s eyes drew to his. He twitched the edge of his lips into a smile. “You have but to ask,” he gave an exaggerated bow, “I am at your service.”

“Maybe I’ll follow up on that,” Enjolras said lightly. “Oh! I never asked... how was your _thing_?” 

“Well,” Grantaire grinned, “As _things_ go, it was a pretty good one.”

“The shirt went down well?”

“My dear, Enjolras! My wooing shirt has _never_ gone down badly! The shirt is the main source of the swoon.”

“Do you not fear it’s a touch predictable? What if the object of your admiration asks for a second _thing?_ ”

“Then we transfer to the wooing shirt 2.0... do not fear, Enjolras, the wooing shirt system is infallible!”

“Well, I suppose you’re the expert.” They both laughed, the sound hiccupping as their hands brushed over the guitar.

“Um,” Grantaire said to break the silence, “No homo.” He gave a salacious wink. “Not without the wooing shirt.”

“Of course,” Enjolras laughed brightly.

“So when do you want me to take a look at your opera stuff?” Grantaire placed a cool hand on Enjolras’ arm, “Because seriously, I don’t think it came across properly at the recital... but your offer is honestly so flattering, and I’d be honoured to work under the great, up-and-coming composer that you are.”  

“Tomorrow?” Enjolras said, smiling coolly, “I’m free after five. You could come to mine?”

“Sounds great... Enjoy the rest of your day, Enjolras.” Their bodies stuttered at the edge of an embrace, but Grantaire turned to the door, with a final, “See you later!”

“Bye,” Enjolras called. He pulled a face into the empty room at the thought of the scraps of opera on his laptop. The thought of Grantaire singing his songs both made him want to throw up and need to take a cold shower.

Enjolras’ arm still prickled where their skin had connected. Enjolras frowned – perhaps Grantaire had been wearing a non-organic hand cream that had caused the blush and burning feeling – Enjolras nodded. There was no other explanation.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shocker! (except not really because I tagged the fic with opera and only just realised now - duh!) 
> 
> hope ya enjoyed! 
> 
> (literally every comment left makes me ridiculously happy - thank you so much!!)


	5. Refrain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras is writing an opera now. He's not exactly sure why, or how, he committed so deeply to composing it. When Grantaire sings- he remembers.

A vein throbbed above Enjolras’ eyebrow. “You’re both being _so_ unreasonable!” he shouted, slapping a hand against a countertop.

“Oh yeah,” scoffed Combeferre, “Like you know anything about _unreasonable!_ Who was it who demanded I write a whole bloody opera in a week to impress some guy?”

“Hang on,” Enjolras said, feeling dragged into the duet of the argument unfairly, “That’s not what this is about, and you _know it._ ”

“Yeah, the issue _is_ that you’re treating me like a _child_ ,” Courfeyrac snapped at Combeferre, “Hate to remind you, but if I wanted to get wasted on every hard drug under the sun, it would still be absolutely zero percent none of your business.”

“ _It starts to be my business when you put all of us_ _in danger_ ,” Combeferre retorted, words as sharp as the edge of a precipice.

“Oh yeah, ‘cos leaving a door unlocked for _one night_ is sure to send us all to an early grave!” Courf threw his hands in the air, face scarlet.

“It’s an unlocked door now, how long is it going to be until you end up bringing some sleazy guy back who ends up being a murderer?”

“You’re both being overdramatic,” Enjolras tried to interject.

“Shut up, Enjolras!” they barked in unison.

“I’ve lived with you for three years, you idiot,” Courf bit, “Exactly _how_ many times have I even brought _anyone_ back? Let alone a murderer!”

“Twenty-three.”

“...What?”

“Twenty-three times,” Combeferre said.

“ _You’ve been counting?_ Oh great! So now I’m being spied on in my own house!” Courfeyrac was blistering with rage. “Get a _life_ , Combeferre. In twenty years do you think you’re going to look back and be glad that your most significant life achievement was to finish your dissertation three months early?”  

“Do you think you’ll be glad _your_ most significant life achievement was to get so high every night you could hardly walk?”

“Yeah, _probably!_ ” Courfeyrac shot Combeferre a glare and stalked out, pointedly yanking the door open and leaving it swinging into their apartment.

“ _You’re such a child!”_ Combeferre yelled after him, gesturing rudely at the door.

“Um...” came a voice, “Bad time?”

Grantaire peeked around the edge of the doorway, smile wary.

Combeferre huffed and stormed into his room, kicking his door shut behind him.

“Sorry, Grantaire,” Enjolras sighed, smoothing the knot in his forehead with a firm hand. “Last night Courf got back at like 5am, collapsed on the sofa and left the door open. Combeferre is furious.”

Grantaire’s face skewed into a grimace. “Ugh,” he exhaled, “Roommate drama is a nightmare. I’ve been on the wrong side of _that_ argument one too many times.” He stood at the edge of the room, taking in the clutter of instruments. Two cellos, a few rogue violins and violas, a double bass resting on the sofa, a timpani with a coffee cup sitting on it, a whole box of wind instruments, a saxophone hung from the wall, a litter of trumpets, Enjolras’ harp and the grand piano – resplendent in burnished in burnished white and copper detailing. “Wow,” he exhaled, “You have quite the collection.”

“Music students...” Enjolras said stiffly, perching himself on the edge of the piano stool. “Would you like anything to drink?”

“I’m good,” Grantaire dropped his jacket on the edge of a chair and sat centimetres from Enjolras. Their thighs were almost pressed together. “So, give me the overview, mysterious composer boy!”

“It’s a Dionysian opera,” Enjolras said, a flurry of ideas wanting to crash against his lips. “I thought you’d be perfect for Dionysius... he’s got some killer tenor pieces.”

“Dionysius has always been my favourite God,” Grantaire offered, “That is such a strange coincidence!”

Enjolras laughed loudly. “It really is!” he coughed. “How’s your Italian, though? The piece may need a bit of fluency work. I think I’m going to have to find a translator.”

“Sono fluente, my dear Enjolras. You sort of become fluent after a lifetime of opera lessons... What made you decide to write in Italian?”

_Because of you,_ Enjolras thought. Because of the way Italian had sounded like dark chocolate and forbidden wine against Grantaire’s lips.“It suits my artistic intention the most, I think.”

“Not Latin to fit that Ancient Greek aesthetic?” Grantaire smiled toothily, “Jehan could help.”

 

At the mere mention of Jehan’s name, Enjolras flushed undeniably scarlet. He hadn’t seen them since _the incident_ a few days before. 

“What’s wrong?” Grantaire asked, and Enjolras was sure Grantaire would be able to feel the heat blistering off his cheeks.

“Well,” Enjolras tried to cover his face, “Things are kind of strange between Jehan and me at the moment.”

“Really?” Grantaire paused, a frown crawling across his brow, “Because I saw them yesterday and they couldn’t stop going on about how much they love you.”  

“I’ve made things strange for myself. Oh, it’s so embarrassing! You’ll think so much less of me if I tell you,” Enjolras received a doubtful squint. “Oh, I just came on to them _so_ strongly and got rejected to the highest degree.”

Grantaire snorted.

“Don’t laugh at me!” Enjolras laughed, batting a loose fist into Grantaire’s shoulder. “I _know...”_

“I don’t think Jehan has ever rejected anyone... Did you propose a long-term monogamous relationship to them?” Grantaire cackled. “You are _so_ red right now.”

“I always am,” Enjolras tried to deflect, “Hashtag communist for life.”

“Wow,” Grantaire laughed so ferociously that his head rolled skywards, “Come on then Comrade, when are you going to play this damn opera?”

Enjolras rested his hands over the piano. Inside him, a swell of explanation tried to burst through his lips, but the years of music tuition had made his habit of justifying his compositions ring useless.

He played the lush, rich chords and nodded at the sheet music when Grantaire was due to enter. Grantaire let his voice ring out, partially halted with uncertainty, but still pure, and velvety and awe inducing.

Enjolras stopped and laughed, the sweet sound bubbling in his throat. “Sorry,” he said, “It’s just so crazy that someone is singing my opera!”

It translated to: _“It’s so crazy that you’re singing a song from the opera I decided to write for you two weeks ago!”_

“Well, this is my first _new_ opera,” Grantaire said, “I’ve only done the classics before. It’s a first for us both.” They smiled at each other, “Now play it already. The suspense is killing me!”

Once the final notes had reverberated off the walls, the pair caught eyes in silence, taking a moment to reorganise scattered thoughts. Enjolras giggled and Grantaire followed suit.

“Wow,” Enjolras said, feeling the strange post-first kiss sensation roiling in his stomach. Did he want to kiss Grantaire? Or was he doing that weird thing he often did, of mistaking musical emotions for romantic ones? “Um...”

“Wow,” Grantaire echoed. “That’s really something... Enjolras...”

Was he leaning towards Enjolras? Grantaire’s breath tickled the bridge of Enjolras’ nose. _He was leaning towards Enjolras. What the hell?_ Enjolras’ chest ached. As he lifted his hand to cradle Grantaire’s neck, Grantaire lifted a finger to Enjolras’ cheek, brushed it carelessly and blew a burst of cold air.

“You have an eyelash on your cheek...” Grantaire said, lifting his index finger, with a slither of golden hair encrusted to the tip.

Enjolras bit back a ragged sigh and tilted his head. _What was wrong with him?_

“It’s perfect...” Enjolras said, “You’re the perfect Dionysus...”

“Yes, talk Ancient Greek classics to me, Enjolras...” Grantaire said, chin angled salaciously, “It drives me insane...”

_He’s joking, he’s joking, he’s joking,_ Enjolras yelled to himself, smiling weakly at Grantaire’s ricochet of laughter. “I’ve always found that a good Greco-Roman quote is the way to anyone’s heart,” Enjolras said. “It was Aristotle who first said that.” 

Grantaire crinkled his nose. “You’re ridiculous. This is incredible, though... Like... I understand the hype.”

“The hype?”

“You must have noticed it. The teachers are obsessed with you, and the freshers follow you around with awe in their eyes. You must have written and performed more pieces at showcases than anyone in the history of the school!”  

Enjolras rolled his eyes and huffed a laugh.

“You run the orchestra, the Musicians Rights board, help with the scholarship program, teach young kids classical music for free, and are in the middle of your dissertation... How the hell do you have time to write an opera in the middle of all of that?”

“I see you’ve done your research,” Enjolras said, watching a blossom of pink bloom across Grantaire’s cheeks.

“What can I say?” Grantaire said, his tone light, “The Enjolras hype reaches a long way across the school... I’m surprised they haven’t just asked you to be the principal.”

“Should we move on?” Enjolras pressed, flipping a sheet of his music dramatically. “I am a _very important person,_ ” he pouted and embellished his accent, shooting a sly wink to Grantaire. “Dionysius’ Aria... you’re going to love this!”

He wasn’t sure what Grantaire thought of it, but Enjolras could not stop stealing glances of him, reading the music, forehead rumpled, and it made the music sound a thousand times sweeter. Enjolras fumbled a chord, sending Grantaire’s gaze into his own. They shared a hiccup of a laugh and continued - the piano and voice clicking together in harmony.

After a couple of hours, the music trailed into silence.

“You’re Dionysus,” Enjolras croaked, “You’re absolutely perfect.” He stammered, “Perfect for the role.”

“I think I’m a little in love with this score, Enjolras... it’s ridiculously pretty.”

“We should perform it,” Enjolras said, words tumbling like an avalanche. “Next week my orchestra is meant to be performing... let’s do this instead.”

“Um... wow,” Grantaire said, scraping a hand across his scalp. “Slow down... we don’t want to rush this...”

Enjolras wanted to rush it all so badly.

“Why not?” he asked, “It’s ready. Why should we wait?” He smiled, watching Grantaire’s eyes flicker downwards, “Say yes?”

Grantaire looked preoccupied. “...Yes?”

“Yes!” Enjolras flung his arm across Grantaire’s shoulder. “We’re gonna kill it!”

Grantaire unfolded his limbs, stretching into the air. His eyes darted to the door. “Give me a sec,” he rolled a thin cigarette between his fingers, “It’s been a long day.”

“Of course,” Enjolras said, watching as Grantaire turned and slid out of view. He felt like he ought to stick his head under the cold tap, but padded over to Combeferre’s door instead.

 

“Ferre?” he tapped gingerly, and waited for his roommate’s grunt of assent. He cracked the door open, to be met with the usual chaos. No-one expected it, but Combeferre was the messiest of the three. His bedside table held a week’s worth of coffee mugs, there was manuscript paper spilling in avalanches from every surface, the walls were crammed with vintage maps, botanical and anatomical drawings. He was currently ripping post-its off his notice board, flinging them with furious disdain, usurped by the papers gentle flutter down the floor. “What are you doing?”

“Planning... my... life...” Combeferre said between destruction.

“How’s it looking?”

“Just swell!” Combeferre scowled. 

“Did you hear Grantaire?”

Combeferre’s hands slowed. His tension melted from his chest. “I heard... bits.”

“What did you think?” Enjolras asked in a whisper.

“I think... I think you’ve done it again, Enj... I’m actually a little bit enraged at how brilliant you are.”

“You helped,” Enjolras beamed, heaving a sigh. “God, Combeferre... I actually think we’re onto something incredible here... Grantaire’s going to perform it with me next week.”

Combeferre astutely arched a brow. “Bit quick?” he said, removing his glasses and polishing them.

“Yeah,” Enjolras said, sidling closer to his roommate. “Can you play piano for it...?” he widened his eyes, fluttering his lids with little subtlety, “Pretty please? I want to test it out on harp right now...”

“You’re a monster.” Combeferre folded his arms. “Fine. But you owe me one.”

Enjolras grinned and held out his hand to high-five, “You’re the best! Besides, in two months, the whole school will be desperate to be involved in this opera... so you actually owe _me_ one.”

“Don’t push your luck,” Combeferre said, pulling Enjolras to him and punching his shoulder. “Can you make me a tea? I’m still grumpy.”

“Chamomile?”

“Chamomile.”

“Will you come out and play with us?” Enjolras dared, “I think you’ll really like Grantaire...”

Combeferre simply rolled his eyes, but followed Enjolras to the lounge. They chattered over steaming teas, before Grantaire returned.

“Adorable,” he quipped, “Enjolras, you weren’t lying about your green tea addiction.”

“Last year during finals, I caught him snorting matcha powder,” Combeferre said.

“Liar,” replied Enjolras, “I was injecting it... that’s the best way to get it into your bloodstream.”

Grantaire coughed a laugh. “Careful, now. You’re starting to sound like the sort of boy my mama warned me about,” he said coyly, mimicking saccharine innocence with ease.

“Don’t encourage him,” Combeferre said, “In an alternate universe, Enjolras would be a rebellious leader, but in this one he won’t even wear leather, so fails level one of the badboy test.”

Enjolras bristled. “I actually don’t wear leather because I don’t want animals to be murdered for me... that’s anarchism... that’s _badboy chic.”_

_“Oh my god,”_ Grantaire and Combeferre said at the same time, sharing a glance, amused.

“I can’t deal with you,” Combeferre sniffed.

“Let’s get to work, you opera-composing badboy,” Grantaire prompted, and get to work they did.

 

It was dark by the time they had finished, all three drawn close in the glow of the music.

“It’s...” Combeferre floundered for a word, fingers seizing on the keys, “Something else.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire’s voice was a little ragged. “It’s... this is mad.” He fixed Enjolras with a long stare. “I’m actually furious that you’re only twenty-one and you’ve written this.”

“Twenty,” Enjolras corrected, a smidge shy. He wasn’t great at giving compliments, but he found accepting them even harder.

“Bloody hell,” Grantaire laughed, “Leave a bit of talent for the rest of us, you monster!”

Enjolras shook his head. “Don’t complain about not having talent. If I could sing like you, I would never _stop_ singing.”

“Singing someone else’s song doesn’t come close to writing it.”

“Break it up, fellas,” Combeferre interjected, “This compliment battle could go on all night... And I’ve got to work on my diss.”

“Dissertation,” Enjolras explained. “Ferre is trying to write the best essay known to man.”

“And woman,” Ferre added, “And gender-non-conformists, too. It’s got to blow their minds.”

Grantaire stood, echoing Combeferre’s slick movement. “I’d better head off, as well.”

“Anything fun planned?” Combeferre asked, collecting their tea mugs.

“I’ll see what Paris has planned for me... sometimes there’s nothing better than letting the city take you on an adventure...” Grantaire sounded wistful, and wild, and all sorts of things Enjolras couldn’t put into words. “Hopefully Paris’ grand plan involves a swimming pool filled with liquor... I’ve been painfully sober for too long.”

“Do you usually end up in alcohol-filled pools?”

“Not often enough, Enjolras... sadly not often enough.” He clapped Combeferre on the back. “It’s been real. Let me know when you want to rehearse.” He smiled at Enjolras.

_‘Now?’_ Enjolras wanted to say. “Sure,” he actually said. “I’ll text you.”

“Nice...” They hugged, and Grantaire was warm, and his shirt was soft and smelled of smoke and mint.

“Nice,” Enjolras echoed. They caught eyes, and then blinked away, sharing a laugh.

“Well...” Grantaire tucked a wave of hair behind his ear, “See you later!” he turned down the corridor, not looking back.

“Bye,” Enjolras said weakly. As he leant on the closed door, a sigh as enormous as the Titanic bellowed from the hollow of his chest.

“Lock the door,” Combeferre commanded, “Why do you look like someone just told you the library of Alexandria burned down?”

“Post-rehearsal blues... I always feel a bit empty afterwards.”

Combeferre tutted, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “It’s because each performance to you is a baring of your soul... You need to learn to step back, a little Enj. It’s not healthy to care so much.”

“I don’t know how else to do it,” Enjolras said. Each time he played a piece, a little part of his soul snagged on the melody, and ripped from his skin, leaving him raw and bloodied. He groaned again, and buried his head into a cushion. “Combeferre...” he uttered, “Why are we performing a song from an opera we barely started writing two weeks ago?”

“Because,” Combeferre said, placing a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder, “You’re an absolute imbecile.”

Enjolras whimpered.

“You’re lucky you’re talented... Otherwise your every decision would make a fool out of you.”

 

Enjolras thought on it. Combeferre was probably right – as he often was.

“You’re probably right,” he said, disheartened.

“I often am!” Combeferre beamed, “Come on, let’s make avocado toast and compose this badboy before we perform it _next week!”_ he took Enjolras and shook him by the shoulders, “ _Next week!”_

_“NEXT WEEK!”_ Enjolras stage-yelled.

_Well,_ he sighed, _let the madness commence._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh I wish I could understand Italian so I could write Dionysus' Aria, but for now it is a mere figment of imagination. Thank you for reading - please tell me what you think! :)


	6. Ensemble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When inspiration strikes - inspiration strikes. There's nothing you can do about it. So when Enjolras hears Grantaire singing his song, he makes his orchestra learn the piece in a week. There's a concert in seven days. There are just four rehearsals. To most - this would be hell. Enjolras needs to succeed - it is as simple as his need to breathe. Inspiration struck - there's nothing else he can do.

Absolute chaos. Enjolras was used to it, but it didn’t make dealing with it any easier.

“Guys!” he said, firmly, “Please!”

The cacophony of instruments continued to blare. “ _Marius_ ,” Enjolras snapped, silencing the incessant bassoon tuning.

“Sorry!” Marius offered, turning pink. He fumbled and the bassoon clattered to the ground.

Enjolras rolled his eyes, throwing his head back and inhaling through his nose. “Alright,” he said, “Nobody make a sound!” The room fell silent. A second passed, and then two more, and the smallest whistle rang from a flute. Enjolras glared at Courfeyrac, murder crossing his mind. “Jesus, why do I do this?” he said. “We’ve been here for half an hour and you’re struggling to stay in tune. I thought I was conducting the _Saint-Michel’s_ orchestra, not a bunch of preschoolers who can’t understand basic tonality.”

Combeferre gave him a narrow-eyed stare over the piano – a sign he was going too far.

“We’ll start again in three minutes. Tune up. Be ready. If you’re unable to accomplish this simple task, perhaps you are not suited to this orchestra. _Three minutes.”_

 

Jehan propped up their double bass and grabbed Enjolras’ arm, twisting him away from the gawking faces.

“Enj, you’re being an arse,” they whispered, “You’re terrifying the first years.”

“This is ridiculous. I work with more professional ten-year-olds.”

He glanced back. The group was trying to tune as quietly as possible, heads ducked under electric lights, manuscript paper flying wild.

“We _are_ helping you, my love. If we performed the Mozart piece, we already know the music... You’re making us learn something brand new...  something you’re still _writing..._ and it’s _hard..._ Give them a break.”

Enjolras pursed his lips. “Sit down, Jehan. We’re starting now.”

“I guess we’ll talk when you’re feeling reasonable...” Jehan raised their eyebrows, painted gold today. They shared a look with Courf and snorted a laugh.

“Jehan,” Enjolras motioned them to the corner of the room, his eyebrows contorted. “Do not undermine me in front of the orchestra.” His tone was stern and unbending.

“Enj,” Jehan said, eyes wide.

“Don’t. The youngest look up to you, and if you and Courf are messing about, wasting time, they will copy you. If you respect me as a friend, respect me as a conductor too.”

Jehan’s eyes, toffee brown, beneath jewel-encrusted lids, softened. “Enj... I... of course I do.”

“Please take a seat then.”

Jehan sat. The orchestra gazed up at Enjolras, a cocktail of fear and awe in their stares. Sometimes conducting was like co-ordinating a zoo.

“Okay,” Enjolras tapped his baton on the music stand, “Let’s take two.” A sigh played through his chest, and he forced his lips to curve. “Let’s all be excellent, as we usually are. Three, four... and...”

The room drew together, and at Enjolras’ nod, set in motion – a many-limbed machine, creaking to life, heaving a breath and exhaling music through collective lungs. It didn’t sound terrible. It certainly did not sound great, but it didn’t sound terrible – and that was always a start.

They creaked through the song, Enjolras trying at once, to conduct and scribble notes, sending the newer members into frenzy as they lost his timing hand. He hoisted them by the reins, veering dangerously and then pulling collectively, allowing airy notes to settle in feather-light clouds, and tugging quiet moments together like corset laces.

He polished and cut, and smoothed, as though he was sculpting a marble sheet into a piece of art – his hands slicing through the sound and securing it in place.

“Good,” he said finally. “It’s good.”

 

Instruments returned to their cases, well-padded and strapped in, carried with reverence like children.

“Thank you for your hard work,” Enjolras said, allowing the slightest of smiles. “Our vocalist is joining us tomorrow,” he ignored the flurry of chatter that pounced, “I know we are moving quickly, but there’s a reason for you to be stupendous. Go away and practice and you’ll be fine. Thanks guys, see you tomorrow.”

He hopped off the stage and met Combeferre at the piano, seeing the overwhelming desire in his eyes for a musical exchange. The inspiration fizzed between them, giving Enjolras more of a buzz than any illegal substance ever could.

As they spoke, their conversation ebbed and flowed like music, leaping over each other in counterpoint, spiralling down in one key, and modulating to another, lifting, peaking, and falling.

 

There was a meek tap at the door.

“Come in,” Enjolras said, barely looking up from his papers.

“Um,” came a voice. It was Marius, bassoon case in hand, fingers tugging at his jumper sleeves. “Sorry to interrupt,” he gave a smile, freckled cheeks blooming with pink watercolour.

“Yes?” Enjolras never made much time for the boy. Courfeyrac had been his roommate in first year, and they had a jovial patter, which silenced whenever Enjolras was nearby. Marius always froze, fiddling and distracting his gaze with whatever surrounded him. Enjolras was sure neither of them had initiated a conversation with one another.

“Um... I have a... suggestion?”

Enjolras mentally began to search the school for a new bassoonist.

The Saint-Michel waiting list was long – it wouldn’t be a hard job.

“A suggestion?” he asked, not bothering to conceal a sigh. He had heard a thousand _suggestions_ from over-eager newbies who wanted to shift the orchestra into something entirely un-orchestral.

“For your opera,” Marius face began to glow, eyes so bright Enjolras swore he was almost tearing up.

Enjolras flinched. “Go on.”

“I know a girl...”

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. The silence played out for a beat too long. “...And?”

“And she’s perfect,” Marius fumbled, “Perfect for the opera, I mean. She’s the prettiest soprano I’ve ever seen, I mean she has the prettiest voice... it’s... she’s really good...” he trailed off, somehow even more shiny and pink.

“Who?”

“She’s called Cosette,” Marius whispered the name like a prayer.

“ _The_ _Cosette_? Fantine's daughter?” Combeferre interjected, “She _is_ good.”

“ _She really is_ , isn’t she?” Marius beamed, “Anyway, I haven’t asked her if she’s interested, but I’m sure she would be!”

“The opera is about Dionysus... And we already have a Dionysus,” Enjolras said, itching to dive back into the compelling thread of conversation left untied with Combeferre.

“Yeah,” said Combeferre, a slight frown furrowing his forehead, “And, Enj... We can’t just have one character.” He looked at Marius with a smile. “Thanks, Marius... I’ll reach out to Cosette. Have a great evening, you up to anything fun?”

“Just practising...” Marius said, teeth peeping from his lips.

Combeferre winked and gave him a thumbs up. “That’s what we like to hear, Pontmercy.”

Marius laughed, a soft dandelion fluff of a laugh. “Alright, boss,” he saluted. “See you guys tomorrow!”

As he left, Combeferre looked at Enjolras sharply.

“Why are you being so moody today?”

“I’m not,” he tutted, “I just don’t have time to deal with whatever convoluted fantasy has swept Marius away, when Grantaire is literally going to be practising with the orchestra _tomorrow._ I can’t be bothered with his romantic notions... _sorry.”_

“Oh for Christ’s sake, Enjolras. Listen to yourself, will you?” Combeferre crossed his arms, “ _Convoluted fantasy? Romantic notions? Grantaire?”_

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t even try, Enj. I know you aren’t stupid. You aren’t fooling for me one second.”

“I’m not-”

“Okay, I don’t want to hear it. Cosette is brilliant, and she would make a great Ariadne. You’re blinkered by Grantaire.”

“I _am not!”_

“What are your plans for the rest of the opera? Had you even thought of any other characters than Dionysus?”

Enjolras pressed his lips together.

“Have you?”

Enjolras sighed. “It’s early stages!”

“You are so clueless it is actually painful, sometimes.” Combeferre laughed, bumping shoulders with Enjolras. “We are going to laugh about this conversation in a couple of months, I promise you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Combeferre rolled his eyes and gathered his sheet music, sliding the papers into a neatly labelled folder. “Let’s get out of here before they lock us in. It’s like half-nine.”

 

~*~

A run through drew to a close.

“Great,” Enjolras said, followed by an immediate frown, “But strings, what are you doing? You are all over the place. Listen to each other, please. One violin is severely out of tune. Sort it out.”

“Hello?”

Enjolras turned. Grantaire was stood at the doorway. His dark, leather jacket was scuffed, his hair rumpled, eyeliner smudged at the corners of his eyes, as he approached, the smell of smoke rolled off him as though he was on fire. Enjolras noticed a few raised eyebrows.

“Ah, perfect! Dionysus, everyone. Welcome, Grantaire.”

“How’s it going?” Grantaire slinked out of his jacket, exposing the ink spill of his arms. He approached Enjolras, leaning in to kiss the air beside Enjolras’ cheeks. The leader recoiled an inch, fixing Grantaire with an odd look. He turned back to the orchestra.

“It’s progressing nicely,” Enjolras said, flustered that his professional front had been splintered. “Shall we just run it from the top?”

He felt Grantaire’s eyes burning into him, but did not turn.

“Grantaire, if you’d like to stand by the piano...?” They all took their places, pieces on a grand chessboard. “Let’s begin.”

Enjolras set to work, weaving them all together, stitching up edges and unfurling timbres into the mix. When Grantaire sung it was dark and throaty, so raw and sensuous that Enjolras almost felt himself blushing. His arms whipped through the air as the piece reached its final crescendo, drawing all the energy in the room to the forefront. Grantaire’s note pierced through the noise, pointed and rich – all-encompassing. As the last notes fell away, the whole orchestra slumped in their seats, exhausted and emotionally bloodied with the effort. Grantaire lifted, his chest heaving.

“Holy shit,” he laughed, “Enjolras, you’re a genius!”

Enjolras smiled a tight-lipped smile. Grantaire was eyeing him with such an intensity that he began to doubt it all.

Enjolras had been in dozens of orchestras before, and in absolutely zero of them had cursing been tolerated. An equal number had abided tardiness, and rolling up in yesterdays clothes, stinking of late nights and cigarettes. Enjolras had sacrificed an enormous chunk of his last three years establishing himself as the firm conductor and leader. His word was absolute truth, and his every demand jumped to. If he said ‘tune up,’ they did. If he said ‘work hard,’ they obeyed. If he said ‘be breathtaking,’ they could do nothing but follow his command.

It did not matter how awe-inducing Grantaire was, Enjolras would not allow him to snatch his reign away with tattooed hands.

Grantaire did not suit the silence. He gave a boisterous laugh to send it away.

“You alright, Enjolras?” he asked, reaching a hand out, as though to save Enjolras from drowning.

“Yes,” Enjolras said, turning away from the watching orchestra to offer a smile to Grantaire, “Let’s just do another run through, okay?”

 

During the break, Enjolras joined Combeferre at the piano, chattering surreptitiously, editing notes and tweaking harmonies. He found it hard to ignore Grantaire slouching next to Courfeyrac, chattering just as surreptitiously, their eyes flickering up to him as they spoke. Enjolras felt a prickle form on the back of his neck and ooze down his spine.

The end of rehearsal came around quicker than he would have liked.

“Brilliant work! Thanks everyone, see you tomorrow!”

Enjolras sat with Combeferre as the room packed and left, leaving silence in its wake.

“Enjolras?”

Grantaire remained, jacket thrown over an arm. The slant to his eyebrows formed an expression that Enjolras had not seen Grantaire wear before.

“Grantaire!” Enjolras said, “Thank you so much. You sounded incredible.”

Grantaire’s eyes flickered to Combeferre. He lowered his voice a touch, as though it would make the slightest difference. “Have I done something wrong?”

Enjolras frowned. “What?”

“Um,” Combeferre said, looking at the blank screen of his phone and standing. “I’m getting a call, one sec.” He swiftly left, leaving Enjolras and Grantaire staring across the room at one another, suddenly aware of the space between them.

“You seem really pissed off at me?” Grantaire’s forehead was still creased. “Have I done something wrong?”

“No, obviously not.” Enjolras shook his head, as though he were trying to wake up. “Obviously not! You’re doing an amazing job.”  

“What’s with the flinching and the glaring then?”

Enjolras tried to clear his throat. “I’m... not?” He coughed, feeling his cheeks burnishing. “I have to be professional in front of the orchestra, that’s all.”

“I thought the orchestra were your friends...”

“No. Some of my friends are in the orchestra... But I can’t afford to treat them as such when we’re rehearsing. It does not lead to good music.”

Grantaire’s frown melted. His shoulders lifted and a breath trickled from his lungs. “I should have realised it was just you taking your role as composer, conductor impresario...” He laughed, “Let yourself have a bit of fun, Enjolras... it’s just an orchestra.”

Enjolras saw the levity glint in Grantaire’s eyes, but his words with an equal lightness pierced Enjolras’ chest. “It’s not...” he said quietly, “It’s not _just_ an orchestra.” His pupils were suddenly blown wide and the intensity in his gaze was almost religious fervour. His voice spiralled louder as he spoke.“It’s one of Saint-Michel’s oldest traditions. Something the whole school is built on, and relies upon, and it’s a ship that I have been left to captain. I can’t let them down... It would shipwreck everything I have worked for. How can I be _made for greatness_ if I can’t even conduct a university orchestra?”

The words shattered around them like shrapnel.

Grantaire stared at him, Enjolras felt the threads they had woven between each other falling away like ruined spider webs.

“Sorry,” he said softly.

Grantaire shrugged a shoulder. “Long day?” he asked, and in that moment Enjolras felt colour seep back into his vision.

“Yeah,” he said, finding it hard to release a smile. “God... I haven’t slept for days...” His head lulled.

Footsteps drew closer, and Grantaire’s arms tackled around him.

“Sometimes all you need is a good hug. I’ve been told I’m an excellent provider,” Grantaire said, voice muffled from its place against Enjolras’ chest. After a second, he barely whispered, “I’m a little bit worried about you, Enjolras.”

“I’m alright,” he replied, “Just tired.”

“Well don’t spread yourself too thinly,” Grantaire’s tone quickly became maternal, and he pulled away to give Enjolras a stern look. “You can’t do _great things_ if you’re exhausted.”

Enjolras laughed and sat at the piano, fingers drifting mindlessly over the keys. “I’m always exhausted.” He exhaled a sigh. “I’m sorry, Grantaire. I’m sorry for being... well, a bit of a tyrant.”

“Yeah, you were a _lot_ of a tyrant. I thought you were going to execute me for trying to kiss you on the cheek.”

“I considered it...”

“What was your plan? Tie me up with violin strings and lob tubas at me until I lost consciousness?”

“That’s not a bad idea, actually...” Enjolras said, with a laugh. “I was thinking more to lock you in a double bass case and chuck you in the Seine.”

Grantaire cackled. “That’s so dark, oh my God!” He threw himself into a seat, gazing at Enjolras through the forest of music stands and stacked chairs. “I’ll have to watch myself around you. I’m watching a documentary on serial killers, and they’re often overly charming and debonair...”

Enjolras flicked his hair. “What can I say?”

“Ideally that you aren’t a serial killer...”

Enjolras winked. They both laughed, hearing the echoes of their joy clattering around the acoustics of the room.

“Anyway, I’m glad you’re not mad at me. Can’t deal with those bad vibes,” Grantaire said, fluttering his fingers. “I should go, though. Éponine wants me back to do a photoshoot with the band.”

“Do you think you’ll be ready for the performance?” Enjolras asked, mirroring Grantaire as he stood.

“Yeah, man. It’s sounding nice. Your orchestra has been well trained...” he smiled, his teeth exposed. “We’re gonna smash it.”

“Yeah... We are.”

They met in the middle of the room, sharing a brief embrace. “Thanks, Grantaire.”

“No... _thank you_. See you at rehearsal tomorrow.”

“See you...”

“Try to get some sleep.”

Grantaire shimmied into his jacket, adjusted his unfairly tight jeans, and offered Enjolras a final wave before he left – leaving Enjolras very alone in a very empty room.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! ahh how are they going to pull it off!? Stay tuned to find out! :P I know exr fics usually have miscommunication at their core (AND I LOVE IT) but I'm proud of our boys communicating a bit for once lol... Let me know what you thought of this chapter! <3


	7. Aria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The evening of the showcase has arrived. 
> 
> Enjolras, as usual, is in a well-controlled frenzy, and Grantaire singing about Dionysian revelry might just be the last straw.

The subway rolled through Paris’ sprawling tunnels, electric lights illuminating stony faces, the small space connecting lives that were miles apart.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac were light-heartedly debating whether Bach or Beyoncé had more cultural impact.

“Nah you are plain wrong,” Courfeyrac laughed, “She’s __Beyoncé.”__

“And he’s __Bach...__ She wouldn’t exist if Bach wasn’t the father of music as we know it.”

“You’re __such__  a nerd.”

“I’d rather be a nerd than __wrong__...”

Courfeyrac gasped loudly and swiped at Combeferre’s arm, beginning a new onslaught of Beyoncé facts.

Enjolras had not heard a word that either of them had said.  

“Enjolras?” Combeferre asked. “What do you think?”

“No,” Courfeyrac said, “That’s totally unfair. You __know__ he’s going to say Bach. Let’s ask everyone on the train and take a survey. That’s fair.”  

“Enjolras?”

Enjolras snapped his eyes open. “Oh my God,” he sighed. “I’m going to die.”

“Uh...” Courfeyrac said, “Yeah... Eventually.”

“Tonight.”

Combeferre and Courfeyrac rolled their eyes in unison.

“I didn’t know the Saint of Angst was retiring...” Combeferre said.

“What?” Courfeyrac asked as Enjolras leant his head against the window.

“Retiring and giving Enjolras the position... as the new Saint of Angst...?” Combeferre said.

“Ooh...” Courfeyrac cackled, “ _ _Burn__... Long-winded and unclear __burn...__ ”

 

To Enjolras, their voices blurred into a monotonous buzz. His head was crammed with soaring melodies and ringing tenor notes sung in a velveteen voice. Somehow, at the same time, he heard screaming, snapped violin strings and the same tenor choking and losing his voice.

 

“We’re here,” Courfeyrac grabbed Enjolras’ hands, and swung him off the train carriage. “Look at me, Enj...” Enjoras’s eyes were glazed, unfocused. “Look at me, babe.”

They caught eyes, Enjolras’ blue meeting Courfeyrac’s hazel. Courfeyrac ran a hand across Enjolras’ chest, hovering over his heart.

“We’re here. And we’ll be with you every second from here to the stage, and every second onstage as well.” He fixed the scarlet plume of pocket-handkerchief, laying it pristinely over the tremors of Enjolras’ heartbeat. “You’re a wonder, Enjolras. No matter what happens in the next couple of hours.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this nervous for a showcase,” Enjolras said candidly, feeling his breath clattering shallowly in his chest like the rumbling of a timpani echo.

“That’s a good thing,” Combeferre said softly, at the same time as Courf said;

“Not even when you performed in front of John Williams?”

“Not even then,” Enjolras groaned. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

His two friends had a silent conversation – communicating through narrowed eyes and raised brows.

 “Okay,” Combeferre took over, pointing at the silhouette of Saint-Michel in the distance. “We’re about to perform at Saint-Michel... the most prestigious classical music school in all of France... I would argue, the whole of Europe.”

“Oh my God, I actually am going to be sick...”

“Enjolras. Pull yourself together. Do you think you would be the lead conductor of Europe’s most prestigious music university if you weren’t good enough? There’s a time for whining and self-deprecating, but it’s not now. Get on stage, conduct the song from the opera we’re composing, and __kill it__...” Combeferre said, his voice raising in a motivational fervour. “You were the one who said it was happening so soon, and all you have to do is wave your arms about in time...”

“Yeah,” Courf inputted, “If anyone should be freaking out, it’s me. Combeferre told me that you changed my flute line twenty minutes ago. I’ll be sight-reading my way through this... and I’ll __blow the audiences__ _ _’__ _ _minds__... and so will you...”

“So shake it off,” Ferre urged, shaking at Enjolras’ shoulder, “And be astounding.”

“We believe in you, woop, woop!” laughed Courfeyrac, bouncing his hands as though he was raising the roof.

They each linked an arm with Enjolras and half-dragged him to the entrance of their school. Enjolras’ head instinctively turned to the right – catching a glimpse of a figure stretched out on the wall.

“Thanks, guys...” he unhooked his arms, kissing the two young men on their cheeks, they shared a trio of smiles. “Love you.”

“We’re so cute,” said Courfeyrac, “We should take a leaf out of Bossuet, Joly and Musichetta’s book.”

“We aren’t having a threesome, Courfeyrac,” Enjolras squinted.

“Not in this universe,” Courfeyrac laughed and squeezed their hands, “But if you believe in the infinite universe theory, we have done so an infinite amount of times.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Enjolras turned his eyes back to the smoking area.

“Oh... __just go,__ Enjolras. See your Prima Donna...” Combeferre grinned, lightly pushing at Enjolras’ shoulder.

He did not need much persuasion, and immediately took off to the green space. Twilight was settled over the space, painting it dusky brown. Grantaire was dressed in his opera persona, forest green shirt buttoned to the hollow of his neck, hair combed off his face, clean shave highlighting the cut of his cheekbones.

“Shit,” Grantaire said, looking guiltily down at his hand, and the curl of smoke that danced from between his fingers. “You caught me.” He coughed. “Don’t worry, I always smoke before I sing. It won’t ruin my performance, or anything...”

Enjolras laughed, not really knowing what to say. He settled on honesty. “You look amazing.”

Grantaire tilted his head, a question playing on his lips. He smiled, “Looking Dionysian enough, for you?”

“Not quite,” Enjolras suddenly felt a rush of boldness. He stepped closer, so close that looking into Grantaire’s eyes was like staring into the moon. “Can I?”

Grantaire nodded.

Enjolras lifted a hand to Grantaire’s lapel and unclasped the top button, his fingers stilled for a moment before unbuttoning two more. He palmed Grantaire’s hair until it sprung into its natural curls, one spiralling over his eyes.

“There,” Enjolras said. “Now you’re wild enough.”

Grantaire did not say a word for a few moments, his eyes unmoving from Enjolras’. “I think you’re the wild one, Enjolras,” he uttered his name like a wish, before mischief seeped into his pupils, “Undressing me at school... How __scandalous__!”

The closeness began to feel overwhelming – only possible to break by stepping even closer somehow, or retreating. He nudged a little closer as Grantaire stepped back. They eyed one another – each move unexpected.

Grantaire took a long drag of his cigarette before crushing it out.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, tucking a silver lighter into his breast pocket. “I guess you’ve done this a billion times.”

“I’m really nervous, actually,” Enjolras said, watching Grantaire’s face contort. “I want it to be incredible.”

“I’ll do my best,” Grantaire said, a little pale.

Enjolras scrambled for what to say. “Oh! Not from your part! You’ll be perfect, I know it... I’m worried about __me.__ It’s all just __so quick__. God, maybe we should have waited longer...”

“It’s fantastic, Enjolras. I don’t know anyone else who could whip an orchestra, and a rather– and I quote – ‘untameable’ opera singer into shape so quickly. You said it yourself: __why wait__? Anyway, we don’t have time to wait now. We’re meant to be on stage in five minutes. Are you ready?”

“I sure hope so.”

“Of course you are. Now __go__! __Run, run, run__!”

They both ran up the stairs, breathless and giddy with laughter. Enjolras halted outside the practise room door, stilling his chest and losing his smile. “I am now the serious conductor of the Saint-Michel orchestra,” he said in a pompous tone.

“Go on, Mr. Important and Very Serious Conductor.”

“Good luck,” Enjolras said, looping his fingers through Grantaire’s and giving a gentle squeeze.

“You too,” Grantaire said, clutching tighter.

Enjolras pushed open the door, straightened his back, and walked with so much purpose that he dared anyone not to pay attention. “Alright. Let me look at you all.”

The whole room sat a little taller in their seats. All pristine in sharp black and white – even Jehan – they were ready.

“Are you all tuned?” Enjolras felt the rate of his heart accelerate. “Combeferre, run the piece through once. I have to be on stage to announce you. Once you hear me introduce you, arrange yourself and sit down on stage. You know the drill, but tonight is of paramount importance. There’s a lot of significant folk in the audience tonight.” He smiled at them all. “Good luck. We will astound them.”

He slipped out of the room and into the wings. He could hear the clamour of people sweltering through the curtains, feel the heat of the lights. The clock struck seven. The tech guy, Mabeuf, gave Enjolras a nod as he drew the grand velvet curtains aside.

A hush fell.

Enjolras tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, rolled his conductor’s baton between his fingers, and strode out – knowing the wonders that the stage lights did to his complexion.

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for attending the third annual showcase of rising talent here at Saint-Michel’s Academy. I will be your conductor tonight, and would like to welcome my orchestra on stage to perform ‘Dionysus’ Aria,’ from the new opera myself and Monsieur Combeferre – our pianist this evening – are composing. I do hope you enjoy.”

He turned, and as he had hoped, the orchestra had arrived, sat in silence, still faces, instruments ready, like statues. Enjolras nodded and turned to the wings.

“Please welcome our soloist, Grantaire as Dionysus.”

Grantaire emerged, gliding across the stage as though he had done it a thousand times. Under the lights, the messiness of his hair was casting shadows across the planes of his face, the curve of his collarbones exposed beneath his shirt was the perfect balance of classy and a __tiny__ bit outrageous for the classical crowd. Enjolras felt pained to drag his eyes away to his waiting orchestra.

With a breath, he raised his arms. They all waited for a moment, then fell into the music as though they were diving into the ocean. Any anxiety that threatened to quiver through Enjolras’ hands was forcibly dispelled, as he drew the song under his skin until his every nerve glowed with electricity. Grantaire’s first note caressed the auditorium, and Enjolras felt the room shift, the energy of the crowd cascade – Enjolras held them all in his hands.

The tension built and built – Enjolras felt flushed, felt his chest heaving. Grantaire sung, in rolling Italian, of pleasure building and building – Enjolras felt even more flushed, felt his heart practically escaping through his ribs. The people in the audience that understood Italian, a majority, blushed too – a little scandalised, a little in awe, feeling the heat themselves.

Enjolras, now in front of an audience, was shocked at his own bravery, in commanding Grantaire’s tongue to sing of such illicit pleasures, to roll the words around his mouth like wine. He sung of stretches of skin and fevered kisses, and heat and lust and breaths being stolen away into the night.

They rose together, like ships rising on the crest of a wave, Enjolras steering them to the final peak. Grantaire soared through his final melisma, jumping from note to note with lazy ease, somehow sounding breathless, rich, and shockingly suggestive all at once.  

They sunk together, in the hazy, post-performance glow. Enjolras turned to Grantaire, eyes heavy with a million words he longed to say. Instead, he turned to the audience and swept into a bow. Grantaire bowed, smiling tight-lipped at the cacophony of applause. When he caught Enjolras’ eye, Enjolras saw the unspoken words there too, and they both smiled – waiting for the chance to speak. He faced the crowd, introducing the next song, feeling like the rest of the concert would drag on for lifetimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank yoouuu for reading! sorry I've been a bit m.i.a but I am back for now! please drop a comment below to let me know what you think - every comment sustains me, waters my plants, clears my skin, blesses me for the day lol... ooh look at that enjolras/grantaire tension BUILDING


	8. Crescendo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night of the showcase somehow ends in Grantaire's bedroom - and although Enjolras had no expectations of how his evening would end, it was certainly not this.

His final bow felt like the largest breath he had exhaled all day. Enjolras bent at the waist, waving a practised hand at his orchestra, before dipping again. He looked out to the blur of faces, electric lights clashing against his eyes, before the velvet fell.

“Thank you, guys,” he whispered to the orchestra, gaze drifting off into the wings. “Amazing work...” Before the ensemble had begun to stand, Enjolras had already disappeared.

He clawed his way through the curtains of the wings, head whipping around expectantly. No one was waiting. He peered into the window of every practise room he passed, heart clattering in his chest and echoing in his ears. He balked at the sight of the audience beginning to emerge from the hall, pivoted and darted down the school’s front steps. The smoking area.

Of course he was there.

“Grantaire!” Enjolras gasped, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

He wasn’t alone.

“Enjolras!” cheered Éponine, still laughing at something Grantaire had been animatedly explaining. The whole of Patron-Minette held matching cigarettes, next to a girl Enjolras had seen around the school. “That was delicious! I always make fun of R for his opera habits, but you __might__  make me change my mind...”

Grantaire finished the conversation he was locked in with the girl before looking up at Enjolras.

“Yeah, you killed it, Enjolras...” he said with his signature easy grin. Enjolras cursed his eyes for noticing a further two buttons unfastened at Grantaire’s lapel.

“Thank you,” Enjolras said to Grantaire – not quite sure how to phrase the thoughts in his head in front of a crowd. “You were perfect.”

Grantaire smiled, arching his back like a content cat. “I was working from a perfectly composed score,” he laughed and turned to the girl beside him. “Have you met Cosette?”

“Um,” Enjolras said, “I don’t believe we have met properly.” He shook her hand, her fingers small and cool in his own.

“It’s wonderful to finally meet you!” she beamed, “My friend told me about your opera, so I came along to see what it was like... and that aria - ugh, it was magical!”

“Thank you,” he said, “Combeferre recommended you... You’re a soprano, right?”

“Yep!” every word she uttered was drenched in sugary sweetness, “That’s how Grantaire and I met,” they shared a glance, and Enjolras noticed her hand rush to his forearm. “We were in Tristan and Isolde together a few years ago.”

“She was my first kiss,” Grantaire laughed, colliding their shoulders.

“Ha, ha!” Cosette rolled her eyes, “I did not believe that when we were fifteen, and I believe it even less now. Do you use that line on every soprano you work with?”

“Nah,” Grantaire leant close. Enjolras recognised the way he spoke softly, as though divulging a secret, his breath caught in his chest. “It became very uncool as soon as I reached sixteen. Pity is an incredibly awful way to someone’s heart.”

“An even worse way to someone’s bed, but it seems to work for you...” Cosette giggled, as though she rarely said anything of scandalous matters. The band’s reaction cemented this, as they gawped at her.

“Oooh, burn!” Éponine laughed, bumping fists with Cosette, who was pink and shining like a freshly polished coin.

“You wound me, fair maiden,” Grantaire fell backwards in mock death.

As they all shrieked with amusement, Enjolras suddenly felt very far away. He watched as Grantaire sprawled, eyes traitorously catching on the rise of his shirt at his navel, and the soft planes of skin that rumbled as he laughed.

“Do you have plans this evening, Grantaire?” Enjolras asked, bold and burning.

Grantaire propped himself up on the concrete, glancing at Enjolras’ fervour as though he was staring at the sun. “We’re having an after-party at ours...”

“Oh,” Enjolras said, his fire immediately doused, humiliation replacing any semblance of dignity. He had not even been invited to the after-party of the concert he had conducted.

“We just planned it now!” Éponine interjected. Relief swept over Enjolras in a wave. “Come, Enjolras... You will __love__ a Patron-Minette after party!”

“We’ll be gentle,” Montparnasse said, exhaling smoke in rings.

“Invite your orchestra,” Éponine begged, “Come on, __please come__ Enjolras...”

“I don’t know...” Enjolras looked at Grantaire, “I was... planning to work on the opera some more...” The lie fell from his lips as easily as a breath.

“Come on, Enjolras,” Grantaire said finally, “I want you there.”

“Okay,” Enjolras felt his resolve crumble. “Sure.”

~*~

The music would never have been Enjolras’ first choice – it was loud and dangerous and made his heart stir under his skin. He was sitting on the sofa, sipping his disgusting mix of spirits.

“It’s an Éponine cocktail,” Montparnasse explained at Enjolras’ initial grimace. “Unfortunately for us, she is probably the only creative in the world who has never worked behind a bar.”

He couldn’t stop himself from gazing mournfully at Grantaire’s spot on the other side of the room, head in Jehan’s lap, with Cosette and Marius laughing at his stories.

Montparnasse raised an eyebrow. “Just go and talk to him,” he said smoothly, gesturing to Grantaire.

“Who?” Enjolras sighed.

“You’ve been staring at him all night... _Marius _,__  of course...”

“ _Marius _?”__ gaped Enjolras, almost choking on his drink.

Montparnasse snorted, batting a playful hand against Enjolras’ shoulder. “I’m not an idiot,” his smile was knife-sharp. “Obviously it’s Grantaire. Just speak to him.”

“I’m not staring at Grantaire,” Enjolras protested weakly, not turning down Montparnasse’s top up of his cup. “I’m not.”

“Okay,” Montparnasse’s smile grew wider, “Whatever you say... But just as general information that probably won’t interest you at all, since you have _no_  interest in him...”

“...What?”

“Grantaire doesn’t usually have much time for people who wait on the sidelines. He has plenty of people who _don’t_ do that.” Montparnasse gestured to Jehan and Cosette, both even closer to Grantaire’s magnetism. “He can be a bit thick if you don’t spell it out to him.”

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience,” Enjolras said, unable to meet Montparnasse’s piercing gaze. “Have you and Grantaire...?”

“Oh, darling,” he ran a finger across Enjolras’ face, and watched as he reddened. “You really are angelic. It’s so sweet you think any of us Patron-Minette lot _haven’t_  done anything you can think of. We’re in a band, and we live together, and we’re young, and hot and often drunk or high. Sex doesn’t mean much besides a tension release.” He laughed and began to massage Enjolras’ shoulders, “And it feels like you could __use__  a tension release. Grantaire isn’t picky... he’ll sleep with just about anything that can give consent.”

“Any _thing _?”__ Enjolras grimaced. “I don’t want to be his... _thing _...”__

“Babe. You only get to be young and reckless once. You’re gorgeous and totally his type. Why not?” he leant into Enjolras’ ear. “He knows what he’s doing. I’ve never met anyone who has left Grantaire’s bed unsatisfied.”

Enjolras’ cheeks flared scarlet, and he tried to meditate his brain to focus on complete emptiness.

“I’m just teasing you,” Montparnasse laughed, “You’re easy to rile. It’s sweet. I’ll let you know that Grantaire and I share a similar reputation when it comes to night-time activities...”

Enjolras flushed even more. He cursed his drunk brain for sending blood so readily to his cheeks.

“You don’t have to take my word for it. It’s so easy for you to find out. Him... me... both of us at once...  You have but to ask...” Montparnasse cackled and filled up Enjolras’ cup again. “It’s painfully easy to fluster you, Enjolras. _I’m joking _.__ All I’m saying is that I think Grantaire would appreciate it if you were a little bit wild. He would worship you for hours...” Montparnasse’s voice drenched Enjolras like poisoned syrup, his eyes, black as night, looked dangerous and daring.

“I _can’t _...”__ Enjolras said, desperate to change the subject. “I can’t complicate things with the opera.”

“It’s only complicated if you let it be.” Montparnasse tilted his head. “Cosette and him. They had a summer fling at fifteen. She was his first kiss... his first everything. That sounds like a nightmare of complications – but they don’t let it be. They’ve been in tons of operas together; it doesn’t faze him at all.”

“I thought he was joking about the first kiss thing,” Enjolras said, eyeing the way Cosette’s hair shone golden in the lowlights.

“Everything that makes Grantaire cool now made him incredibly unpopular in high school. Teenage opera singing boys with eyeliner don’t tend to get laid much...”

“Enjolras,” said Éponine, squeezing herself between his and Montparnasse’s thighs on the sofa. “Do I need to save you? Is Parnasse bullying you?”

“I’m divulging important information,” Montparnasse said with his snake-coil of a smirk. “Enjolras was just about to leave to talk to the star of the show...”

“Enjolras clearly _was_ the star of the show,” Éponine crossed her arms, “I don’t get why Grantaire’s getting all that fuss. All he did was sing one of Enjolras’ beautiful songs...” she grinned at them both. “Enjolras if you want to lie in my lap, Parnasse can feed you grapes. We can start our own harem _here_.”

“I’ve got to get a drink of water,” Enjolras said. “Your cocktail is making me really drunk really quickly.”

“That’s the point, babe,” Éponine smiled and fluttered a wave as Enjolras stood up.

He didn’t veer towards the sink, but to the cluster that swarmed around Grantaire. He tried ardently to ignore Montparnasse’s smug expression.

“Grantaire... can we speak?” he felt the groups eyes turn to him. Jehan laughed and rolled Grantaire into a seated position.

“It’s about time for a smoke break... coming, guys?” Grantaire said, his pupils blown so wide it looked like he was high on something a bit stronger than life.

“Alone?” Enjolras pressed.

Grantaire laughed and held his hands out for Enjolras to hoist him up. He stumbled as he pushed through to his bedroom, his palms hot and sweaty. He slumped onto his bed, a giggle rolling across his tongue.

“I definitely need to be horizontal right now,” he said, a slight slur painting his words. He stared up at Enjolras, eyes hazy and surrounded with smudged eyeliner. “You’d look pretty good horizontal, too,” Grantaire dragged his gaze across the empty stretch of bed beside him, and then back to Enjolras. His eyes were darker than Enjolras had ever seen them - more pupil than iris. 

How easy it would be to say ‘yes.’ Enjolras’ toes curled at the mere thought of Grantaire’s lips on his own... on other stretches of his skin. Of those dextrous fingers pressing, leaving bruises. A heat rolled down from his cheeks, settling in the depths of his stomach, sending earthquakes through his insides.

Wasn’t this precisely what Dionysus’ Aria had sung of? Revelry and scalding heat – no consequences and no expectations... God, hadn't it been so long? Wasn't it just what he needed? Like Montparnasse had said - a tension relief. He wanted to. His chest ached with the immeasurable depth of how much he wanted to. 

In one universe he filled that empty gap – lost himself in the smokescreen of Grantaire – finally, _finally_ felt his hands against hot skin and silken hair. 

In this one, he said – without really knowing why – “No.”

Grantaire suddenly looked much more sober. “I don’t need telling twice,” he said. “Sorry if I overstepped a line.” He stayed lying down, his eyes dark and stormy, begging for Enjolras to fall into them. “What did you want to speak about?”

Enjolras wanted to ask if the invitation would remain when Grantaire wasn’t half-way to another planet – when he was fully sober. “I just wanted to congratulate you. Maybe now wasn’t the best time.”

“Perhaps not. I’m really coming-up...” he said, confirming Enjolras’ suspicion. “I’ll be able to talk business in a couple of days, but right now my mind is a bit preoccupied... I’d forgotten how incredible this makes me feel...” he laughed to himself and loosened another button on his shirt. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“The way you always do... You confuse me...” he rolled his head to the distant music, “I thought you were into me, but you clearly aren’t... Look – I’m not offended – I wouldn’t want to be with me either...”

“Maybe I should talk to you when you’re a bit more cohesive,” Enjolras said lightly, “It kind of seems like you won’t remember any of what we say now.”

“That’s the plan,” Grantaire giggled again.

The Grantaire that had stood before him, mere hours before, kempt, a little bit wild, and awe-inducing, had melted into a messy, giggling boy.

“Enjolras?” he said, sliding another button open.

“Yes?” Enjolras tried to ignore Grantaire’s hand, its ever downward trajectory.  

“Can you ask Jehan to come here...? I’d ask them myself, but I don’t trust myself vertically, right now... Or Cosette... Yeah, send Cosette. Or both... Whoever gets here first.”

Enjolras felt his stomach turn as he left Grantaire alone. He slumped onto the sofa. “Cosette... Grantaire’s asking for you...” The words felt like poison on his tongue.

“Oh?” she smiled, “Where is he?”

“His room.” Enjolras hoped that saying the words quickly would dampen the jolt of pain that roiled in his gut.

As Cosette shimmied her way across the room, blotting out the light from Grantaire’s room, as the door swung shut behind her, as Enjolras felt heat rise to his cheeks, he felt Marius’ eyes on him.

“What?” he snapped, not appreciating the mourning stare. “As far as I know, I didn’t just kill your puppy, so stop looking at me like I have.”

“What is your problem with me Enjolras?” Marius quivered, immediately red. Enjolras was scared the boy was about to cry. “Everyone says you’re this great composer, conductor genius... but you’re just... you’re just...” he paused, and Enjolras wondered how deeply the insult was going to slice him. “You’re just plain _mean _.”__

 _ _“Ooh,__ cool it Pontmercy,” Enjolras said, feeling... well, feeling plain _mean _.__ “You could cut someone with that viciously sharp tongue.”

“Go to hell,” Marius choked, standing. Enjolras wondered if he was about to get into a fist fight with _Marius Pontmercy _.__ “I quit your stupid orchestra _and_  your stupid opera.” To Enjolras’ dismay, Marius began to cry – fat tears rolled down his face.

“You’re drunk,” Enjolras sniped.

“No... _you’re drunk _,”__ Marius said, “ _Drunk on power _.__ I’m leaving.”

“Marius...” Enjolras faltered, “You don’t even live in Paris... Where are you going to go?”

“I’ll find _somewhere_.” He made for the door, swaying on his feet. Enjolras felt mean, but he wasn’t mean enough to let a crying Marius stagger into the cold Parisian streets alone. He followed close behind. As they passed Grantaire’s room, a duet of laughter echoed out – Grantaire’s deep and melodic against the trill of Cosette’s. Marius and Enjolras shared a dark look and they hurried into the cold night air.

“I’m literally really in love with her,” Marius whined, “Why would you do that?”

“I didn’t _make_ her go.”

“I don’t even see them together at all... I mean... _Cosette and Grantaire? _”__

“You’re telling me!” Enjolras crossed his arms, “There’s some people that just should not be together, and that is two of them. If it’s any consolation, they’re both drunk and Grantaire’s really high... I think he was looking for the first person that would say ‘yes.’”

“That’s no consolation at all.” Marius scowled. “That’s the opposite of consolation!” He collapsed onto Enjolras’ shoulder and began to cry loudly. “ _I love her..._ I just never know how to truly say what I’m feeling,” he coughed.

“I’ve been there,” Enjolras said, trying to pat the top of Marius’ head, feeling incredibly awkward.

“I just thought I was going to confess my feelings for her tonight, but then Grantaire got in the way and now they’re probably... doing very non-PG things in his den of _sin _.”__

“Are you religious?”

“No,” Marius whimpered, “I just thought tonight would end differently.”

“So did I,” Enjolras said, resenting how similar he and Marius were beginning to sound.

“I didn’t want to end up in _your_ arms... no offence.”

Enjolras felt the strangest twitch of his lips and then he began to laugh, and suddenly neither of them could stop.

After a few minutes of delirious, drunken laughter, and a few more tears, Enjolras said, “Please don’t quit my stupid orchestra or my stupid opera...”   

“I won’t,” Marius sniffled, “I love your stupid orchestra.”

“I’m sorry for... being _mean _.”__

“Well, my heart is irreversibly broken, and I’ll probably never recover, and probably die alone and miserable... but I forgive you.” Marius swiped at his face, hands coming away soaking wet. “I think I’m going to leave, though. I don’t think I can stand being in there with Cosette... well with Cosette doing whatever she’s doing...”

“I think I’ll do the same,” Enjolras said. He shrugged, ignoring his inner voice screaming at him. “Do  you want to stay at mine?”

Marius looked as aghast as Enjolras intuition felt. “Why?” he said, suspicion snaking through his tone.

“You can sleep in Courf’s room. I know you have to get a bus for miles... the buses probably aren’t running this late...” Enjolras bit at his lower lip. “As an apology for ruining your life...?”

“I think I’m in the middle of a very weird dream,” Marius said, eyes still red-rimmed and cheeks glistening.

“Me too...” Enjolras grimaced. “I would describe it as more of a nightmare.”

“Hey,” Marius said, feigning offence, “You didn’t see the love of your life choose someone else over you... If it’s a nightmare for anyone... it’s me.”

“Let’s go... Hey, maybe to cheer you up I can give you some one-on-one bassoon critique...”

Marius looked at him with fear tearing his gaze like steel. Colour rushed out of his cheeks and he looked as though Enjolras had sentenced him to public execution.

“ _ _I’m joking,”__ Enjolras said, not finding the energy to laugh.

“Ha, ha,” Marius said weakly, “I didn’t know you were capable of that... joking, I mean.”

Exasperation bubbled deep in Enjolras’ chest, but between dealing with Marius for a night or being on the other side of a wall to Grantaire’s room – aptly described as his __den of sin__  – Enjolras felt compelled to choose Marius.

There was a first time for everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooooooommggggg WHAT?!  
> I, firstly apologise for that b l a t a n t misleading in the chapter summary, and secondly for that plot twist - but we needed SOME angst. also I've just realised this fic has like the weirdest ever pairings?? an enj/jehan make out sesh?? cosette and GRANTAIRE?? what is my writer brain DOING? 
> 
> and enjolras and grantaire.... THEY WERE SO CLOSE, but SOON my friends I promise SOON. also I stan enjolras and marius' weird frenemy sitch - I could write ten million chapters of just awkward enj and marius interactions hahaha
> 
> please let me know what you think if you enjoyed!! analyse the heck out of this hot mess! every comment makes my week!


	9. Dissonance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras finds it harder to avoid Grantaire than he had hoped, and even harder to ignore the insurmountable list of Grantaire-related feelings. But at least Grantaire won't find him at the free classical music lessons that Enjolras teaches to some of Paris' most impoverished children... right?

Over the following weeks, Enjolras tried to ignore the opera as much as possible – but the beast was well and truly alive, and traitorously snaked from his fingertips any time he was close to an instrument. Teachers brought it up every lesson, pushing him to write more, Combeferre would not shut up about it – he had fallen so deep into a black hole of mythology research that Dionysus seemed to creep into every conversation they had. Even Courfeyrac could be heard warbling the notes of Dionysus’ Aria in the shower, with about as much finesse as a dying fox.

The opera may not have been an easy thing to escape – but even harder to avoid, it seemed, was Grantaire. Suddenly all of Enjolras’ friends were mentioning him and the orchestra was talking about how great the after-party had been, and everywhere Enjolras looked he saw a shock of dark, wild hair and was forced to duck into the closest classroom.

One afternoon, as he was diving through the corridors, he noticed Grantaire’s eyes catch him from the stairwell. He stared as his phone and held it to his ear.

“Combeferre?” he said, too loudly. “It’s Enjolras...Yeah... I’ll be there in five minutes... See you!” the phone was silent and cold next to his cheek. He pivoted and dashed from the building. Not because he was avoiding Grantaire, or anything... No, he had places to be... He was busy.

The lies did not even convince himself.

 

“Hey guys!” he forced himself to smile, and hoped that children were poor detectors of insincerity.

The building was an old, converted church – too grand for the graffiti and litter that swarmed its exterior. Inside, brightly coloured poster paper and paint lined the walls. At least Grantaire would have no reason to be skulking around the free classical music lessons Enjolras taught – they were exclusively for children under twelve.

“Enjolras!” they cheered back, and suddenly his smile evaporated its falseness and he felt truly happy.

He knotted his hair atop his head, to keep it out of his eyes. The strict weight of the Saint-Michel orchestra floated off his shoulders as he sat cross-legged on the floor.

“Who wants to play a game to warm up?” he asked, already knowing the answer. “Let’s tell a story with our instruments,” he beamed – knowing the game was the children’s favourite, but also his own. “Once upon a time there was a little bird...” he pointed at the young flautists, who enthusiastically screeched through their flutes. “Who was absolutely best friends with an elephant who trumpeted like a tuba...”

The tubas blared. As Enjolras let the story lilt off his tongue, waving his arms until eventually the whole group began to play together – sounding horrific – he remembered the joy of conducting.

If any of his orchestra members were to see him in this moment, they probably would not recognise him. His eyes were ablaze, but with a different fervour than the fiery determination that usually burned within him, he laughed easily, and mistakes were easy to ignore – they were not failures but moments to grow from.

The two hours were gone all too quickly, and Enjolras felt the same jolt of coldness as the children returned to draughty homes, with too little heat and too little food. At least he would see them again in a week, prepared with a table laden with biscuits and fruit, with a smile and the abundance of hope and dreams that music could cultivate inside of a soul.

He knew it was not enough, but at least it was something.

“Are your parents on the way?” Enjolras asked, to the last child who was left lingering by the door, all dark eyes and unkempt sandy hair. It was already ten minutes past seven.

“Dunno,” the boy said, kicking his toes against the skirting board.

Enjolras smiled and offered him another biscuit. “It’s alright, Gavroche. I’ll wait with you until they get here.”

Gavroche took the snack hastily, as though it was moments from being snatched away. He grinned at Enjolras, the chocolate smeared on his gums.

“How was school today?”

“Didn’t go, did I?” Gavroche said, peering at Enjolras’ hands in search of another biscuit. Enjolras gave it up.

“You didn’t go?” he frowned, “Why not?”

“Mum didn’t give me money for the train,” Gavroche seemed uninterested, as Enjolras’ heart heaved. “She didn’t want to wake up.”

“Do you want me to have a word with her?”

“Nah...” Gavroche shrugged, “Usually its fine.”

Enjolras did the only thing he could do in that moment – he gave the rest of the cookies to Gavroche – watching the boy’s eyes light up at the half-empty packet.

“Sick!” Gavroche began to shove a handful into his mouth, “Thanks Enjolras!”

Enjolras whiled away the next half an hour, showing Gavroche videos of orchestras covering video game soundtracks. It was 7:43 when the doors finally groaned open. Enjolras looked up, disapproving glint unhidden in his eyes. His expression melted.

What the _hell_  was Grantaire doing in the old reformed church? Had he followed Enjolras there?

He couldn’t have – he looked as shocked as Enjolras felt.

Gavroche was shoving his belongings into his satchel, making towards Grantaire.

How the _hell_  did Grantaire know Gavroche?

_Was Grantaire Gavroche’s father?_

Gavroche who came in week after week with unwashed hair and stained clothes, with an appetite bigger than most eight year olds.

No, no, __no,__ it didn’t make sense! Grantaire was simply not old enough... was he?

 _ _No.__ Enjolras had met Gavroche’s father – he had repeatedly asked for a discount, despite Enjolras’ assurances that the classes were free.

Enjolras felt drowned in questions – and Grantaire looked as though he were in a similar quandary.

“What?” Enjolras spluttered while Grantaire said,

“Hey...” he raised an eyebrow.”Hey, Gav. Sorry I’m late, your mum wanted Ép to pick you up, but she’s in the studio. Your mum only rang ten minutes ago. I ran the whole way here.”

“What are you doing here?” Enjolras said, his guard suddenly up. He ripped his hair out of its binding, tucking it off his face.

“Nice surprise?” Grantaire asked, half-heartedly. “I didn’t know you taught _Gavroche _.__ I guess I should have known... You’re like the classical music superhero in Paris...” he scrubbed a palm against his scruffy stubble. “Look, Enj... I wanted to speak to you, but I haven’t been able to find you anywhere...”

“How do you know Enjolras, R?” Gavroche asked, shifting under the weight of his bag. “How do _you_  know R?”

“We go to school together,” Grantaire explained.

“ _You_ go to school?” Gavroche said, pointedly staring at Enjolras. “I thought you were an adult.”

Grantaire laughed and fluffed Gavroche’s hair. “Hey, put your coat on, okay? It’s getting cold out there.”

Gavroche ran to get his coat from the locker room.

“This will have to be quick,” Grantaire said, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked uncomfortable – Enjolras had never seen him _not_ ooze confidence. “I’m really sorry, Enjolras.”

“It’s okay,” Enjolras winced.

“No. It’s not. My behaviour was totally out of order. I shouldn’t have gotten that sloppy in front of you. And... god, coming onto you... I’ve been embarrassed about it all week. Look, I totally get it if you want to get someone else to play Dionysus, but... yeah, I’d just really regret it me being a total hot mess ruined our professional relationship.”

“It was very Dionysian of you to throw such a wild party,” Enjolras tried to joke, sounding rather strangled.

“No. It was unprofessional. I’m sorry.” He cricked his neck from side to side. “And I really enjoyed being a part of your opera.”

Enjolras felt a strange sensation roil down his spine. “I’m not kicking you out... You’re Dionysus... if you still want to be, I mean.”

“Of course I do!” Grantaire smiled and ran his crystal pendant through his fingers.

“Good.”

“Great.” They smiled at one another. “But this time, one thousand percent professional. I will never try to seduce you again. That’s a promise,” said Grantaire, nodding sombrely. “Hashtag Awks.”

Enjolras scratched at his forehead. Marius’ sobbed __‘_ I just never know how to truly say what I’m feeling’ _rang through his head briefly before Gavroche returned.

“Anyway,” Grantaire said, “Let me know what you’re planning for the rest of the opera... Nice to catch up...” he smiled and turned to Gavroche. “Come on, mister. Do you wanna hang out with your sister in the studio? We can get pizza...”

“ _Yes!”_ Gavroche’s shoulders danced. “See ya next week, Enjolras!”

“Bye, Gavroche. Grantaire.”

 

He walked back to his apartment alone – making himself a tea before pouring his heart into his fingers and cradling his cheek against his harp. It sounded treacherously lonely and longing.

After half an hour, Combeferre padded out of his room, looking bundled up beyond belief in an oversized indigo sweater. “Sounding good,” he said, not looking up from his book. “For the opera?”

“Maybe...” Enjolras said, unfocused. “What are you reading?”

Combeferre shifted the small library he was holding, and lifted the cover.

“Nietzsche...” Enjolras read, “For the dissertation?”

“Nope,” Combeferre grinned, folding himself onto the sofa, “For the opera... It’s amazing. He’s drawing all these parallels between Dionysus and Apollo... and then there’s this other writer who does the same... Camille Paglia...” he showcased another book from his pile, “What a queen. She relates Dionysus to female energy, and a wild chaotic nature,” he read, “And unconstrained love and sex... but compares Apollo’s association to male energy, rationality and celibacy or homosexuality... It is actually so riveting! I haven’t been able to sleep for two nights...”

Enjolras felt thoroughly called out.

“Does that make me Apollo, then?” he begrudgingly muttered.

“Sorry...” Combeferre squinted, “Can you say that again? I need to record it. That’s the first time in months I’ve heard you say anything vaguely self-aware.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes, but stopped playing the harp.

“Are you ready to talk about it?” Combeferre asked, “As your best friend... I think it would be good to talk about it...”

Enjolras’ sigh was cut short by a loud crash as Courfeyrac practically ran into the room.

“Did I overhear that we’re having a gossip session?” he gaped.

“Stop foaming at the mouth, Courf,” Enjolras sniffed. “There’s no gossip to talk about.”

 _“Oh... really?”_ said Courfeyrac, a taunting lilt to his words. “R told me you completely rejected him... I think he described it as the lowest high of his life... or maybe it was the highest low of his life... one of the two...”

“ _What? _”__ Combeferre opened his mouth. “Grantaire tried to hook up with you?”

“Um,” Courfeyrac jumped onto the sofa, “Bigger question: _you turned him down? _”__

“Guys...” Enjolras said, at a loss of what to say. “I’m... trying to practise.”

Courfeyrac stilled Enjolras’ hands. “I won’t hesitate to throw your harp out of the window if you keep trying to avoid the subject.”

Enjolras tried to hide himself in his mug of tea. “Not much happened. I just said no.”

“ _Babe _.”__ Courfeyrac scowled, “Set the scene. Recount the whole night word by word.”

Enjolras made a tiny braid of his hair. “Well... I went to speak to him. And then we went to his room, and he was like...” he put on a deeper, gruffer voice, trying to sound as velvety as possible, “’I need to be horizontal right now...’ and I didn’t really say anything, and then he said... ‘You’d look pretty good horizontal, too...’”

Combeferre and Courfeyrac both gasped, bursting into a surprised volley of laughter.

“That’s a good line,” Courf said, “I’m using that.”

“What happened then?”

Enjolras blushed. “I said no.”

“You didn’t even think about saying yes?” Courf asked.

“Of course he did,” Combeferre interjected, “He wrote this whole opera to impress him.”

“You _what _?”__ Courf said, his voice almost a scream.

“I _did not! _”__ Enjolras wanted to melt. “ _I did not.”_

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” Courfeyrac was grinning, relishing the warmth of Enjolras’ gossip.

“Ugh, never mind,” Enjolras said, reaching back to his harp.

Courfeyrac grappled with Enjolras’ hands. “No way. You can’t stop in the middle of a story. Did you think about saying yes?”

Enjolras put his face in his hands, feeling the scarlet rush of embarrassment. In the smallest of whispers, he said, “Yes.”

Courfeyrac and Combeferre both yelled, far too enthusiastically.

“ _I knew it!”_ Combeferre un-ironically punched the air.

“Why did you say no?” Courfeyrac pressed a hand to his heart.

“Um,” Combeferre lifted his book, “Enjolras’ Apollonian nature leads him to rationality, clarity and celibacy... opposed to Grantaire’s Dionysian tendencies that give him a more relaxed relationship to sex.”

“Don’t psychoanalyse me,” Enjolras complained. “It just wasn’t right. I don’t know what I want.”

Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow. “I do. I can see it clear as day. Debussy playing. A make out session on top of a grand piano... ending with you both in Mozart’s real bed... and you playing Grantaire like a harp...” he cackled.

“Ew,” Enjolras kicked Courfeyrac’s knee with his socked foot, “Don’t fantasize about me. Anyway, I saw him today and he said it was ‘one thousand percent professional’ and that ‘he would never try to seduce me again,’ so whatever was going on, it is well and truly dead.”

Combeferre pushed his glasses – which had tumbled off in excitement – back up his nose. “I suppose you will just have to seduce him yourself.”

Enjolras groaned.

Courfeyrac said, “Yeah. It __is__  well and truly dead if Enjolras is left in charge of seducing. Your only method is to look pretty until someone initiates everything... and _you just turned him down _.”__

“You’re going to have to work with him a lot... _like_ a _lot _...__ when we finish this opera.”  

“I know,” Enjolras slumped, “I guess I’ll just be uncomfortable and awkward until the day I die. And when my legacy is inextricably linked to this opera, my ghost will be haunted with the mention of Grantaire everywhere I go.”

“ _Or _...__ you do something about it,” Courfeyrac said. “Look. You be Grantaire, I’ll be you.”

He rushed to the piano, smashing his hands into the keys – for such a talented flautist, Courfeyrac was not much of a pianist. “Imagine this is really good.” He flicked his hair in an exaggerated Enjolras-ism, eyes brooding and mouth tilted just a little open. Enjolras did not much like the accuracy. “Sing, Grantaire,” he urged.

“I don’t sing,” Enjolras said.

“Don’t be humble, Grantaire, king of the opera. Let your delightful tenor voice _soar _.”__

Enjolras scowled but began to sing his Aria, on-tune, but almost as unpleasant as grinding metal sounded in comparison to the real Grantaire.

“Wow,” Courfeyrac said, pouting his lips and narrowing his eyes, smouldering. “That was the most beautiful rendition I have ever heard, Grantaire.”

Enjolras snorted.

Courfeyrac whipped across the room dramatically – Enjolras’ gait seemingly well-practiced – pressing a finger to Enjolras’ lips. “Let me talk,” he said, standing straight and flouncing his hair out of his face. “I hear you sing... and... well, something awakens within me.” He lifted Enjolras by the hands and spun him, lodging him against the cool wood of the piano. “You allow me to hear new music... music that can’t even exist in our harmonic systems...”

“How can you hear it, then? If it doesn’t exist?” Enjolras pursed his lips together.

“Because...” Courf said, flinging his head back, “You are my muse.” He leant close, his words rolling into a low, controlled whisper, “Let me be yours.”

He snapped backwards, falling into an exaggerated bow. “Cue ravishing on top of the piano. You can thank me later, Enjolras.”

Enjolras laughed, spinning back towards the sofa. As he turned, he froze, noticing a silhouette at Courfeyrac’s door. The figure was pretending to scroll through his phone, but, without a doubt, was eavesdropping. Enjolras’ laughter quickly fled. “What is _Marius_ doing here?” he snapped.

“Staying over?” Courf said, giving Enjolras an over-dramatic eye-roll. “What do you think of the gossip, Pontmercy? Shocked that your charming leader is helplessly in love with _Grantaire _?”__

“Um,” Marius squinted his eyes, “It is quite shocking, yeah.”

“I am _not_ helplessly in love with Grantaire,” Enjolras protested, “I’m not in love with him in any way. All I said is that when he proposed a drunken hook-up I thought ‘ _why not?_ ’ for one second before saying no and leaving the party.”

“The party when Cosette and Grantaire...?” Marius trailed off, suddenly very red.

“The very same,” Courfeyrac crowed, “Cosette wasn’t the first blonde in Grantaire’s bedroom that night,” he winked lewdly.

Marius tugged at the edges of his jumper. “That’s why you were being so weird.”

Enjolras glowered at Courfeyrac.

 

“I’m in,” Marius said.

“ _In_ what?”

“I’m in the plan to get you two together. Exclusively together.” Marius thumbed his freckled cheek. “For no ulterior motive.”

A titanic sigh heaved from Enjolras’ chest. __Of course,__  something this ridiculous would occur when Marius was involved.

“That’s not the plan. There is _no_ plan,” Enjolras felt his conductor persona slide onto his skin, “And don’t tell anyone anything you’ve overheard.”

“I wouldn’t... I would never,” Marius jumped from tomato red to ghost white.

“I’ve had quite enough of this mindless chatter. I have _actual_ work to do.” Enjolras grabbed his empty mug, and blank papers. As he strode from the room, he overheard Combeferre comment.

“You really nailed his dramatic walk, Courf.”

“And the hair flicks,” Marius said with a quiet giggle.

Enjolras tried to walk as un-dramatically as possible, keeping his head still. He _did_ have work to do. He had to write the opera. As Marius had put it: _for no ulterior motive_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! I am actually shaken to my core that this has nearly 1000 reads, I never thought anyone but me would want to read a super nerdy classical au, but my heart feels full! So so grateful for any comments - let me know what you think and what you want to see next! <3 
> 
> I love an drama queen enjolras, it is MY WEAKNESS


	10. Movement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Big decisions lie on the horizon for Enjolras. Should he use his symphony for his final project, or take a risk on the opera, and take a risk on Grantaire?

Jean Valjean had called Enjolras into his office.

Waiting outside, absently reading the onslaught of notices about instruments for sale, and sign-up sheets for chamber choir, Enjolras suddenly felt transported back to high school – pulled in for bunking sports, and writing compositions over his exam papers.

“Enjolras?” Valjean cracked open his door, and beckoned Enjolras in. Through the walls, a quartet of strings was playing Mozart. A smile drifted over Enjolras’ face at the familiar melody. “Take a seat.”

Valjean’s office was humble and well-ordered. His wooden desk shared a weathered nature with his rough hands, the soft lights had the same warm glow as his eyes. Enjolras perched on the edge of the straight-backed chair, looking at Valjean with a mixture of respect and curiosity.

“Have you read the monthly newsletter yet?” Valjean asked, pushing the laminated magazine across the desk.

“Not yet,” Enjolras said, a light sweat breaking on his brow. “I usually read it as soon as it’s released... but... I’ve been busy.”

Valjean laughed good-naturedly. “You don’t need to justify not reading our newsletter, Enjolras– I know it can be a dry read... but take a look at page twenty-six.”

Enjolras flipped through, recognising faces and performances, all printed slickly on glossed paper – Saint Michel had a lot of money. At page twenty-six, his fingers froze above a picture of Grantaire, his rose pink lips drawn open, the sharp bottle-green glass of his eyes gazing skyward, caught on a distant thought: all striking beneath stage-lights and burnishing in high definition. Enjolras’ first thought was that even Valjean was taunting him.

“See?” he tapped the page.

Enjolras forced his gaze from Grantaire’s fervour, to the title printed above his head.

“Dionysian Opera Drives Crowd Wild?” he read, squinting. “We only performed one song... and to say the crowd was driven wild is a gross exaggeration...”

“I think the writer liked the pun,” Valjean said steadily. “And besides, Saint-Michel audiences are not particular to headbanging, or mosh pits... A standing ovation is the wildest they will go. Your work was met with great praise, Enjolras.”

“Really?” his voice was absent as his fingers traced the cool paper. “What have people been saying?”

“I heard a great many things that evening about you... all good. If you were planning to use the concert as a way to get your name on the lips of important people, it certainly worked.”

“That wasn’t my plan,” Enjolras admitted. Valjean did not need to know the intricacies of Enjolras’ reasoning behind Grantaire’s performance.

“Nevertheless,” Valjean shrugged, “The outcome is the same. Many top orchestras asked about you... A fellow from London Symphony Orchestra seemed quite taken by you... I called you here, firstly to congratulate you for doing all the right things... If you continue like this, you could be headed straight from graduation to a life in a professional orchestra.”

Enjolras’ smile flickered, candle-like, before blazing. “Thank you.”

“Secondly, I implore you to stop working on your symphony at once...”

 

An ice-cold water shock doused Enjolras, disbelief dripping into his eyes, and horror dampening his hair. Fingers of self-doubt began to claw at his neck, restraining the words that flurried to his lips. “W- what?” he stammered, disliking any hint of weakness in front of Valjean. His symphony. He could not deny that he had been neglecting it in light of the opera, and his dissertation, and his teaching and the myriad of other projects that had cracked through his concrete heart like wildflowers. Still... it was _his symphony _.__ It was meant to be his grand final project: a farewell wave to his years at Saint-Michel, and a reaching hand to future opportunities.

“Temporarily,” Valjean’s eyes twinkled. “I do not doubt your symphony will be wondrous, but this opera of yours has a real chance of attracting a large crowd of people interested in your future as a musician. My word... we haven’t had a new opera written here in four... five years. We get new symphonies every week.”

“But... but I’ve barely written anything for the opera.”

“Enjolras. I would not say this to the majority of my students. I would not say it if I did not believe it truly...” he fixed Enjolras with a weighted stare, “When has that ever been a problem for you? In your first week here I asked you to write a duet with piano and flute, and you wrote a 45-minute concert... _In a week._ You have _months_ to finish the opera. You could write three in that time.”

Enjolras dropped his gaze. Perhaps there was more behind his aversion than the timescale.

“What’s wrong?” Valjean pushed. “I know a wealth of opera singers who would be ideal for the project... your orchestra would do anything you asked them to. You won’t be short of facilities... What’s the problem?”

“I just don’t know if... there just may be some slight creative differences.”

Valjean steepled his fingers, cleared his throat and said, rather firmly. “At risk of sounding unprofessional, Enjolras... Get over it.”

Another wave of shock spun into Enjolras.

“Creative differences have two outcomes: change the differences or change the creative. If you need  a new pianist, get a new pianist. If you need a new Dionysus, get one. That’s no excuse not to pursue a project that would be beneficial and stimulating for you.”

“I-” Enjolras had no idea how to respond.

“I have to teach a lesson in five minutes, so I can’t stay long. I just wanted to make it very clear where I stand. _Write the opera_. If you use it for your final project, I don’t doubt you will be immensely successful. Thanks, Enjolras.”

“Thanks,” he peeped, feeling utterly dismissed. “See you in a few days.”

Valjean fastened his double bass case, and swept it onto his back as though it were a mere violin. “Have a good afternoon. Take the newsletter, if you’d like.”

Enjolras swept the picture of Grantaire into his arms and fled – his mind spinning.

 

~*~

“House meeting!” Combeferre shouted, ringing the ridiculous morning gong. Both Enjolras and Courfeyrac eyed one another, lips pursed. “Opera meeting!”

Courfeyrac lay his head back on the sofa, playing a tiny fanfare on his flute. “Why do we need to have a meeting? Surely its obvious… Finish the opera and use it as both of your final projects. Bish, bash, bosh. Instant first.”

“It’s only three months away,” Enjolras said, picking at the dry skin on his lips.

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac scowled, suddenly motherly. He tapped Enjolras’ hand away, “Stop picking. Anyway, you can’t use that as an excuse. Anyone else can, but not you.”

“It _would_ look amazing in our portfolio,” reasoned Combeferre, dark eyes sparkling like onyx. “I vote we finish it.”

“Me too,” Courfeyrac affirmed.

“Guys. I don’t think you’re understanding the extent of what _staging an opera_ would entail… Ferre… We need to write another two hours of material. We need to teach three hours of music to Grantaire, the orchestra. Oh, we need to cast more singers, teach them the music… then find a director, stage and choreograph it, and then we’re only left with the _minuscule_ task of sourcing _props, costumes, staging, a marketing budget,_ and an audience! In _three months!”_

__“__ Doable.” Combeferre folded his arms. “Meeting adjourned.”

“Meeting called,” Enjolras scratched at his collars, “How on Earth could we achieve that?”

“Because,” Courfeyrac beamed, sunshine-filled, “You have the best friends in the world. If you compose it, I can teach the orchestra it. I’m an absolute God of a conductor, so if you need to skip some rehearsals to compose… or have _one-on-one_ sessions with Grantaire…” he grinned wickedly, “I would be willing to sacrifice my free time for that.”

“I’m sure Grantaire would be willing to sacrifice his free time for _one-on-one_ sessions, too,” Combeferre laughed and high-fived Courfeyrac.

Enjolras tutted, “You are both hilarious and extremely mature.” He strained his hair between his fingers, “Which brings us to the Grantaire point…”

“The point being? That you both have enough sexual tension to drown a small neighbourhood, but won’t act on it?” Courfeyrac rolled his eyes, “Not really a valid reason to not get a banging degree.”

Enjolras flopped between his two friends, staring at their slightly cracked ceiling. “I’m going to get a banging degree whether I do this opera or not.”

“Comrade!” Courfeyrac grabbed Enjolras by the shoulders, “Think about the people! The common folk! The workers! All of the orchestra and singers will be able to put your opera on their resumé… Do it for the good of the people.”

Combeferre huffed. “Enjolras. Honestly, we all know you’re going to turn around and do it, because that’s just who you are. So stop deliberating, and just get on with it. Like you say, we only have three months to finish it all. Let’s get composing.”

Enjolras groaned and deliberated even more intensely.

“I’ll write out all of the music notation today…” Combeferre offered, “All you have to do is play the harp a bit.”

“And I’ll make you composing cookies… And annoy you with questions about how to Harvard reference…”

“Really?” Enjolras perked up, “You’ll make cookies?”

“Courfeyrac’s Classic Composing Cookies… they’re all the rage. I should sell them…” Courfeyrac gasped, “ _I should sell them!”_

“Vegan?” Enjolras asked.

Courfeyrac looked at him and narrowed his eyes, pulling his hair into the smallest possible topknot. “Are you going to get on with the opera and stop moping?”

Enjolras threw his hands back and heaved himself to the piano, letting his fingers scrape the length of the keys. “Fine. There’s no time to waste, is there?”

Both Courfeyrac and Combeferre shared a glance and laughed. “Then, yes,” Courfeyrac snorted, “One batch of _vegan_ cookies coming up. But if you complain again, I will pour a gallon of milk on them so you can’t eat them.”

“You’re lactose intolerant, Courf,” Enjolras slanted his eyes.

“It would be worth it. Get on with it, kids,” Courfeyrac left with a flourish, Combeferre nudged Enjolras off the piano stool, and in the moment before Enjolras’ fingers drifted to the harp strings, there was a weight in the air.

 

Later that night, urging sleep, Enjolras felt the same weight pressing on him again. He reluctantly peeled open his eyes, fingers itching to his charger. Within seconds, the blue light of his phone - that he _knew_ was immensely unhealthy while trying to get to sleep - was blaring across his face.

‘Hey,’ he wrote, not allowing himself to over think. ‘Sorry for the late text. Up late composing. Ferre and I are going to use the opera as our final project. Aiming for a fully staged production in three months… insane - I know! If you’re up for it, rehearsal tomorrow after class? Please say yes!’

Enjolras frowned and hastily deleted the last sentence. ‘I’d love to see you as Dionysus.’ He sighed again and hit backspace, replacing the truth with a mild, ‘Let me know.’

Without another thought, he sent the message, throwing his phone down, swearing to himself that he would fall asleep now.

An hour later, no sleep in sight, hunched over in golden light of his desk lamp, scratching away at manuscript paper, watching notes drip from his fingertips into writing, Enjolras jerked when his phone buzzed. He scrambled across the room, scattering paper in his haste.

‘helllllllll uyeah’ it read. Enjolras blinked, lips scratching together. His phone buzzed again.

‘lol enjolras and dionysus are such tongue twisters when you’re drunkk.’

Again, ‘just told ep she is HYPED.’

Enjolras imagined the scene, Patron-Minette cosied together on their faded sofa, drinking Éponine’s spirit cocktail out of mugs, Grantaire’s lips stumbling over the word Dionysus, and his name. The thought of his name in Grantaire’s mouth suddenly made him feel outrageously, unreasonably warm, and he turned back to his composition, finding the only words he could write were filled to the brim with longing and desire.

 

He woke a few hours later to the sound of the morning gong, head rested on nothing but a bundle of paper. Enjolras reread the words that had tumbled from his brain.

_Oh my God,_ he thought.

Enjolras would rather take on an army than let a soul read these lyrics. The mere idea of Combeferre reading them was mortifying - there was no way Combeferre who already looked at him with a hint of pity and a bucket-load of smugness when Grantaire’s name was mentioned, could ever find them.

Enjolras’ mind trickled down across the cringe-inducing Italian, and who it was written for. God, if Grantaire ever read them, he would _physically die _.__ Enjolras slid them into the depths of his folder system, never to see the light of day again.

His eyes fell wistfully to the folder with his forgotten symphony. If he had never seen Grantaire singing opera, perhaps he would be composing that for his final project - it, in comparison to the Dionysian opera, would have been a breeze. In a way, it was all Grantaire’s fault. The fault of his forearms, and his untameable curls, the gemstone around his neck, his ridiculous wooing shirts, the easiness of his tongue, and the velveteen voice that rolled from it. Yes… if Enjolras had never seen any of that, the opera would never have existed at all.

_You could have asked him out for a goddamn coffee,_ a traitorous voice whispered at the back of his mind, but Enjolras pushed it deep, deep down into his subconscious - his parents had taught him that trick. Besides, he had no time to waste, he had classes to go to, a dissertation to write, a scholarship board meeting, teaching  to do… and an opera to write. He tried to push the image of Grantaire from his mind and continued to write, blazing on fragments of sleep and not much else. He knew it wasn't healthy, but Enjolras didn't even have time to worry about that either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wwwooow so I have a feeling that this will be coming to an end in a few chapters! thank you so much for reading - honestly gobsmacked this has 1000 reads tbh,,, in awe, I aM SHAKEN. 
> 
> let me know what ya thought of this chapter, and what else you'd like to see the gang get up to before the finale of this symphony!*
> 
> * fanfic (yeah I know using musical terminology for everything aint cute but here we are)
> 
> absolutely love reading comments it's my life blood!


	11. Rallentando

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marius over-enthusiastically tries to schedule more private rehearsals between Enjolras and Grantaire, which is as bewildering to Grantaire as it is maddening to Enjolras. 
> 
> It kind of feels like the opera is going to kill him if he can't repress how Grantaire's forearms are making him feel.

He absolutely swore to himself that he wouldn’t look around to the smoking area. He straightened his back, set his eyes on the highest window of Saint-Michel and power-walked for the staircase.

“Enjolras!” the voice was distant, but brimming with over-eagerness and excitement. “ _Enjolras!_ ”

Enjolras could feel everyone’s eyes on him in the split-second he considered ignoring his name. He slowly turned.

Marius was sat cross-legged next to Grantaire, waving his arms far too enthusiastically, practically levitating.

Enjolras sighed through his nose and walked into the smoking area. “Hi Marius,” he said, “Grantaire.”

“Grantaire just told me the _incredible_ news!” Marius beamed, “We’re doing the opera!”

“We are,” Enjolras smiled, his heart fluttering shallowly in his chest.

“I guess you two are going to have to spend a ton of time together,” Marius’ face looked as though it was going to split in two from smiling, “That will be _so_ nice for you. Hey, Grantaire, did you know that Enjolras has an amazing music room in his house… perhaps you could go there to practice?”

Grantaire looked at Enjolras, an amused tilt to his lips, a mischief playing in his eyes. “Yeah, I’ve seen it.”

“Are you rehearsing today?” Marius fizzled with excitement.

“ _Marius_ ,” Enjolras raised an eyebrow, “Aren’t you going to be late for class?”

Marius grinned even wider, grabbing his satchel and bassoon case. “I’ll leave you two alone…” he said just before he jogged into school, throwing them a highly non-conspicuous glance over his shoulder.

“Sorry about him,” Enjolras rubbed at his forehead, “He can be a bit much in the morning.”

“He’s very… enthusiastic,” Grantaire agreed, “Seems like he might have a bit of a school-boy crush on you.”

Enjolras spluttered, choking on his words, half-laughing, half-gaping. “ _What? _”__

“He couldn’t stop going on about how great you were. It’s like… I’ve spoken to him once in my life and he just came up to me and talked about you for fifteen minutes…” Grantaire laughed, “He’s very earnest. It’s sweet.”

“Please ignore anything that Marius says to you,” Enjolras rolled his eyes, “It’s what I try to do.”

“Aww,” Grantaire pouted, “Is Mr. Big-Bad-Conductor out?”

The expression on Enjolras’ face softened a hint. “No, sorry, that was a bit mean. You’re right, he’s…” he grimaced, “sweet. Anyway, I’m glad you’re onboard for Dionysus.”

“Of course I am.” Grantaire looked up, eyes shining, and it was like a stab to Enjolras’ stomach.

“Good,” he said as evenly as he could, “Well, it’s going to be hard work… Me and ‘Ferre are rehearsing today from three to seven… Room 601A… Can you make it?”

“For sure,” Grantaire exhaled his last curl of smoke and crushed the butt beneath his heel. “Hey, Enj… are you free on Friday?”

If Enjolras’ heart had been fluttering in his chest moments before, it had just begun to take flight around his whole body.

“I think so…” he said after a pause, “Why?”

“Jehan just asked me to take part in their new gallery slash performance piece… I’m gonna exhibit some of my art, and do a quick performance… Patron-Minette are playing too.”

“I’ll be there,” Enjolras smiled. Grantaire winked and clicked his tongue. If Enjolras had tried that, he would have looked like he was having a mini-stroke, but Grantaire’s wink sent a zap through Enjolras’ lungs. “See you at rehearsals,” he said, and feeling a hint brave, he leant forwards. “Don’t be late,” he grinned and watched Grantaire do the same.

 

He was only a footstep into the school when he heard his name shouted again. Raising his eyes to the gold-flecked marble staircase, he saw Joly tripping down in his haste.

“Joly,” he smiled, encapsulating his first violinist in a one armed hug. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re doing the opera in three months?” Joly’s voice was breathless and fluttery.

“That’s the plan, yeah…”

“Didn’t cross your mind to send a text?” Joly raised his dark eyebrows, one hand playing anxiously with his violin case.

“Oh,” Enjolras blinked, “Oh I’m so sorry Joly… You’re one of the first to know… Ferre and I only decided last night.”

“Marius posted about it in the Whatsapp group…” Joly narrowed his eyes, “Marius Pontmercy the _bassoonist _…__ ”

Enjolras was going to have a serious chat with Marius Pontmercy, and he was looking forward to it about as much as he looked forward to visiting the dentist. “He wasn’t supposed to know. I swear Joly… Ferre, Courf and Grantaire are the only people I’ve told. You were the next on the list.”

“Good,” Joly huffed, “Because I _am_ your first violinist.”

“I know.”

“Good. Don’t forget it.” Joly poked Enjolras lightly in the chest, “Because a lot of us have our final projects’ relying on you, so you really _should_ be keeping us in the loop.”

A soft sigh pooled in Enjolras’ stomach. “I’m sorry,” he winced.

“Well,  since you owe me a favour now…” Joly’s firm expression melted into a roguish grin, “My girlfriend is a banging costume designer, and you have to use her.”

A revelation dawned over Enjolras’ face like morning. “Would she be interested?”

“Yeah, course she would be… Especially if you ask our boyfriend to help build the sets…”

Enjolras grinned. He nudged shoulders with Joly. “I thought it was only _one_ favour I owed you,” he said, good-naturedly.

“We’re three-for-one,” Joly smiled, teeth nibbling at the edge of his lip. “Gotta run or I’m going to be late… but you should totally get them involved. See you!”

“Bye,” Enjolras called at the retreating back of his friend. Trying to avoid the surge of students making for the stairs, he hastily flipped open his notebook which contained only two names. ‘Grantaire, Cosette,’ it read, and scrawled in the margins, ‘performers.’ He scribbled ‘Bossuet and Musichetta,’ into the list, under a new subheading titled ‘design team.’

Multitasking tended to come easily to musicians, so by the time Enjolras was at the door of his first lesson, he had already sent a perfectly-crafted email to Bossuet and Musichetta, arranging to meet them that very evening.

The world felt like a carpet being pulled out from under his feet.

 

~*~

For a music school with such enormous funding  - Saint-Michel’s practise rooms were unfairly small. Sure, Enjolras and Combeferre were tall, and took up half of the space, but the room was so minuscule that Grantaire’s forearms were  taking up all of Enjolras’ vision.

“Yes, yes,” Enjolras said, grabbing his sheet music and writing a sprawl of changes. “Ferre, play the last phrase with more feeling, like this…” he scooted Combeferre from the seat, letting his fingers dance carelessly over the keys. “Grantaire, give it a bit of a richer tone… think about what Dionysus is saying… _what isn’t he saying?”_

 _ _“__ It seems like Dionysus wouldn’t hold-back on speaking his mind.”

“But there’s subtext,” Combeferre interjected, “Grantaire, you speak your mind, too… but you also must have moments where you don’t say everything you’re feeling…”

Grantaire glanced up and cleared his throat. Enjolras caught his eyes and suddenly tried to focus on a crack in the wall. 

“Ferre…” interrupted Enjolras, “Let’s teach him the new one, the one we wrote yesterday. Okay, so this is Dionysus’ wine song… he’s just discovered wine, and is telling his maenads and satyrs-”

“Maenads being his wild female followers, and satyrs being his male nature spirit followers…” Combeferre interrupted to explain.

“I’m sure he’s done his research, Ferre. Anyway, this is your song to basically sing about how great wine is -simple, really.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire nodded with a breathy laugh, “I don’t think I’ll have much trouble getting into character for this one.”

 

Flicking through his increasingly large folder, Enjolras unsheathed a wedge of sheet music, adorned with clumsily written Italian. He handed it to Grantaire, who began to skim through, brow furrowed in concentration.

“Sing it through first, Enj,” Ferre said, fingers stretching to the grand opening chord.

If Enjolras had any hesitations about singing - which he most certainly _did _-__  he had no time to protest as Combeferre played the intricate introduction. “Excuse the Italian pronunciation,” he managed to spit out before his first line.

As he sang, Grantaire’s eyes burned across his face. To distract himself he tried to stare fervently at the sheet music, despising how clunky and thin the words sounded from his throat. With his perfect-pitch, he knew he wasn’t off-key, but good singers had to have _something more_ than a tuneful melody, and whatever that __something__ was, Enjolras lacked it.

He finished, shortening the last note because he had not breathed deep enough.

“That’s so fun,” Grantaire said, a sparkle in his eyes, “Nicely done!” he let out a laugh. “Oh my God, this is _so fun! I wish every opera was written like this!” He flicked through the music, “It’s so playful - I love it!”_

Combeferre and Enjolras caught eyes and grinned, matching blushes crowding their cheeks.

“I’m so glad you like it,” Enjolras beamed, “Anything that sticks out?”

“There’s some little mistakes in the Italian,” Grantaire snatched a pen from behind his ear, scribbling edits across the pages, “Nothing major… some pronoun issues, I can go through it with a fine-tooth comb later…”

“How do you know so much Italian?” Combeferre asked, smile stretching his lips as he added a scribble to his manuscript paper.

“I’m half-Italian,” Grantaire grinned as Enjolras recoiled in shock, “Half-Greek, too! I’m sort of the perfect applicant for a Dionysian opera…”

“I never knew that!” Enjolras gawped.

Grantaire laughed and shook his hair out of his eyes, “It’s part of the mystery… you haven’t uncovered it all yet, Enjolras.”

 _I’d like to _,__ the traitorous voice whispered in Enjolras’ mind. He tried to silence it, but it shouted back even louder. _I’d like to uncover all of you… literally._  

“There’s time for uncovering after rehearsals,” Combeferre gave his signature raised-eyebrow beneath his thin-wire frames. “Ready for a sing through, Grantaire?”

“Can’t wait,” Grantaire readied himself to sing, the electricity between his breathing and Combeferre’s rolling piano notes surged when he opened his lips. Enjolras stood back to watch, a thousand changes, suggestions and new ideas blooming in his brain. He almost had whiplash from how quickly everything was moving, but as Grantaire sung, the world seemed to slow - each breath felt like a century.

He forced himself not to notice the inkspill of Grantaire’s fluttering eyelashes, the arch of his neck, the bob of his throat, the curve of his lips, the swell of his chest, and found that he did not have much else he could look at. His eyes drifted to Grantaire’s fingers - the long, dexterous digits that swam in time with the music - his mind flickered back to the conversation with Éponine, about Grantaire’s guitar fingering.

 Enjolras decided it would be best to look at Combeferre instead.

By the time rehearsal finished, there were a million things he wished to say to Grantaire, but that still did not feel quite ready in his chest. He had to dash off to meet with his potential designers, Musichetta and Bossuet, anyway, so the ever looming, and increasingly growing list of things that Enjolras needed to say to Grantaire would have to be shelved for another day.

At least, Enjolras told himself that, as he hugged Grantaire in farewell, because truthfully the idea of digging up all the perfectly repressed emotions inside made him feel sick.

Enjolras’ parents had taught him how to subjugate any feeling that distracted from music incredibly well, and now even the knowledge that he _had_ a feeling that could distract from music filled him with hot, burning shame.

But Grantaire’s dark, ensnaring glances drenched in delicious poison filled him with something just as hot and burning - something a million times stronger than the shame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oohh Enjolras darling, how long are you going to last?? poor clueless pining thing (how evil of me)
> 
> anyway I'm literally having a blast writing this, and every comment you leave makes me blister with joyyyyyyy, so thank you for every delightful word you leave me! I FEEL SO IN LOVE WITH ALL OF YOU! 
> 
> thank ya for reading!


	12. Counterpoint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Opera discussions at the Musain ensue, and finally, finally, Enjolras has to confront a rather large (and growing), Grantaire-shaped confession. Where better than Jehan's showcase?

They met at the Musain.

Or rather, Enjolras, running a few minutes late from rehearsal, saw them curled into each other in a very dark corner of the Musain, and almost did not wish to disturb them.

“Hey guys,” he said tentatively.

They jumped to their feet, perfectly in sync, flowing against each other like water. “Enjolras!” Musichetta pressed two loud kisses to his cheeks. Bossuet did the same and squeezed tighter as Enjolras stepped back.

“Oh man, it’s been ages since I’ve seen you!” Bossuet held Enjolras at arms length, giving him a little shake. “Look at you! Have you been eating enough?”

Enjolras shook off the comment with a wave of his hand. “Look at you! Look at both of you!”

Musichetta threw her head back in easy laughter, “Bossuet’s biceps have probably grown three inches since you last saw him…” she preened at his arms, and added in a whisper, “He makes me measure them with a tape measure.”

“I do not,” Bossuet laughed and nudged at Musichetta with his hip, “ _You_ suggested measuring them…”

“I _did not! _”__ Musichetta giggled, “I’m putting the blame on Joly… if it wasn’t us, he’s the only remaining culprit…”

As if remembering Enjolras was stood before him, they gestured for him to sit at their table, and the trio spread their folders across the benches. Enjolras’ was neat, bound in red and gold, ‘Dionysus’ emblazoned on the front, with a contents page and summary at the beginning. Bossuet had a scrappy, lined notepad filled with shopping lists, and Musichetta’s portfolio was overflowing at the edges, all bright colours and material scraps.

“Obviously we saw the performance at the showcase,” Musichetta explained, “And, speaking for the triumvirate… we’d love to be involved with the next step.”

“Joly frantically told us this morning that you’re putting it on in three months…” Bossuet looked at Enjolras, a smirk hidden in his whiskey-amber eyes. “First thing I said was __‘_ That sounds a lot like Enjolras…’ _Wasn’t it?”

Musichetta nodded her affirmation. “It was. And it _is_ a lot like you. Anyway, I started sketching as soon as you emailed. I’ve been working for haughty Parisian models for way too long… I want to work with actors again - God, I never thought I’d hear myself say that!” She bundled a stretch of translucent, burgundy material from her bag. It glimmered like a rich wine under the low-lit room. Enjolras inhaled as his fingers swum through the silken texture.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, for the first time imagining full costumes and everything a full staging would entail. His breath caught in his throat. Behind his eyelids, he saw Cosette, resplendent in shimmering wine-red skirts, gold crusted headdresses, her hair flying freely, as exquisite as the beautiful mortal, Ariadne, who Dionysus fell in love with. He saw the maenads, low cut corsets and long flowing skirts, the satyrs in earthen shades, golden horns and matching eye makeup. He saw Grantaire, hair loosely flowing across his shoulders, leaves and flowers interwoven, tunic tied at the waist - the sprawl of his tattoos making Dionysus modern and alive.

Enjolras’ reasons for writing the musical had always revolved around Grantaire, but he was aghast it had taken him so long to realise that he was going to see Grantaire in a tunic. _A tunic!_ The opera-writing process became ten-thousand times more tortuous.

“I should put you in touch with Grantaire,” Enjolras mused at Musichetta’s sketches, “You’ll need him for fittings and stuff, but he’s a great artist too… he’d probably have some great ideas. You free on Friday?”

“In the evening? Yeah, probably,” Musichetta swallowed down the remainder of her wine, “If my runway dress-rehearsal doesn’t run over.” She rolled her eyes and Bossuet mirrored her.

“Well Jehan’s putting on an evening of entertainment… Grantaire’s showcasing some art… Perhaps you could meet him there. I think you’d be a great artistic match...”

“He’s cute, too!” Musichetta chirped, noticing the pink sprawl on Enjolras’ marble cheeks. “Boss… didn’t we agree he was cute?”

“I’m gonna say that was Joly… I do not recall that conversation.”

Musichetta snorted and tucked her head onto Bossuet’s collarbone. “You can’t just say everything was Joly because he’s not here.”

“I totally put the blame of anything on you when you’re not here,” Bossuet joked.

“Touché…” Musichetta  nudged her nose on his shoulder - it was a tiny moment, gentle, and achingly intimate - Enjolras looked away. He didn’t know if it was the talk of a tunic, or the fact he had spent four hours rehearsing with Grantaire, or the fact he’d spent weeks with every inch of Grantaire clouding his mind - but Enjolras was swept away with an overwhelming desire to nudge his nose against Grantaire’s collarbones. He turned undeniably scarlet and turned the attention to Bossuet to get his mind away from the edge of the never ending cliff face that Grantaire seemed to have carved into Enjolras’ soul.

Bossuet’s sketches were spiky and almost so alive they crawled from the page. He drew great sprawling sets - Grecian landscapes, fields, Mount Olympus, encapsulated simply in jagged, minimalist lines.

“It’s easy to do on a budget,” Bossuet pointed out, “Minimalism is the way forward. We could do big set pieces and backdrops, but I think that cheapens it sometimes. Just make the work so amazing that you barely realise how seamless the set actually is - that’s the sign of a good set sometimes… you hardly notice it.”

“And obviously you’re going to have a Greek chorus, right?”

“Right,” Enjolras confirmed, wondering where the hell he was going to _find_ a Greek chorus.

“Perfect,” Bossuet scribbled a note across his pad, “Well we’ll integrate them into the set… make them part of the forest. The Greek chorus represents mankind, we’ll make them mankind by personifying them as part of the earth themselves…”  

“Brilliant!” Musichetta beamed, she too writing a flurry of notes. “And we can incorporate that into their costumes too! Earthy tones, flower crowns, _ooh!_ I know a supplier who makes leather out of leaves - they have all these gorgeous, autumnal colours that look like _fire _…__ It’s perfect! And ethical too, of course, my dear,” she squeezed Enjolras’ fingers.

“Amazing!” Enjolras could not refrain from an exclamative, “And Dionysus can set himself aside as __‘_ the other, _’__ by never truly getting involved in the set, and he can wear a different pallet of colours, to set him aside from the rest.”

“Yes! The Gods can have their own colour scheme, and the mortals can have theirs… and Dionysus, the half-blood…” Musichetta’s eyes fell on the burgundy sash of silk, “ _Yes!_ The Gods are red, the mortals are blue, and Dionysus is wine-purple!” the words fell from her mouth like a revelation. “It’s perfect!”

They chattered right through to the early hours of morning, barely noticing as the crowd shifted from exhausted college students, to lonely drunks, and then to no-one at all.

“Oh no,” Enjolras gaped, looking at his phone, “It’s three a.m.”

The bartender looked over, bored, polishing a wine glass. “We close in five minutes,” he said, turning back to his duties.

“Oh my God,” Bossuet fizzled with excitement, “This is gonna be insane.”

“ _Insane,_ ” Musichetta echoed. They linked fingers over the table. “Well, Enjolras, darling, we’ll come to the performance on Friday, meet the famous Grantaire… and when you need us again, give us a call. I’m going to start sketching and gathering materials straight away.”

Enjolras slapped his hand to his forehead as he remembered something. “Oh my God! Saint-Michel has a budget for student productions, so I’ll see if I can get you guys some extra funds to help buy materials and stuff…”

Bossuet and Musichetta’s eyes lit up. “That would be perfect!” Musichetta beamed.

“Yeah,” Bossuet shrugged, “We’re kind of broke.”

“I’ll see what I can do. I’ll speak to my professor about it tomorrow.” Enjolras caught the barman’s eye again and flushed guiltily. “Let’s go. I don’t want to make him work overtime on our behalf.”

They left in a clatter of laughter and embraces, Musichetta’s soft and round, Bossuet’s firm and compact. Enjolras watched as they curled into each other like moths to a flame, and wove away into the morning.

 

~*~

For the rest of the week, Enjolras was filled with a prickly sort of sensation, roiling just beneath his skin. Hot showers couldn’t rid it, nor could freezing cold showers. It could not be displaced by hours of practice, though Enjolras persevered until his fingers bled and his shoulders ached.

Whether it was Valjean’s submission to the Board for funding - which would turn the opera from a sketch of an idea into a fully bloomed performance - or something to do with the growing list of things he had not said aloud, Enjolras couldn’t feel clean.

The flatmates braved the cold in a brisk walk to the subway, dressed extravagantly, like they were wearing someone else’s clothes.   _For Jehan’s sake,_ they had said pulling their fineries from their wardrobes.

Enjolras had golden glitter poured across his cheekbones, courtesy of Courfeyrac, and wore his best scarlet shirt, inlaid with flecks of gold stitching and buttons. He had even been talked into tying a sunshiney, silken scarf around his neck like a cravat. He caught a reflection of Combeferre, Courfeyrac and himself in the window of the train, and realised with a jolt that they looked great, and more importantly, they looked _happy _.__

Jehan, shimmering in a silvery, translucent sheen, took the trio tightly in their arms. “Mes Amis!” They beamed a quicksilver smile. “You’re all looking beautiful! You are works of art! Come through to the gallery - that’s where you belong!”

Jehan rounded them into the somewhat cramped gallery space, before flitting off to greet someone else. Jehan’s works bloomed over enormous canvases - bright, rich colours that entranced and sung of vast open spaces and freedom. Enjolras was in the middle of letting the shades bleed into his eyes, when Courfeyrac tugged him away, exclaiming loudly, “I’ve found what you’re here for!”

Enjolras tried to protest. “I’m here to see Jehan’s work too…” His voice cracked at the sight of Grantaire’s paintings, crammed onto the walls. He would have known they were Grantaire’s on sight alone.  They were sleek and daring - work designed to exist in galleries instead of in houses. Sweeps of forest green and electric gold ran through the canvases, so vibrant they almost glowed like candlelight. A mix of abstract works ran alongside portraits that looked so alive they practically breathed. Éponine was caught unawares, peering over her shoulder, dark hair spiralling golden under the sun. Montparnasse leaning over a bridge, smoke pouring from his lips, tattoos blooming across his arms, fingers curled around the bannister as if playing piano. Jehan coiled in dark sheets, pupils blown, smile wide, staring straight into Enjolras’ eyes with a mixture of mischief and heady craving. Cosette half flying off a swing-set, mouth open in paused laughter, head tilted back, eyes squeezed shut. Enjolras had to avert his eyes, feeling as though he were intruding on a private moment.

“Wow,” he breathed, wanting to step right into the world inside Grantaire’s mind.

“Tonight’s the night,” Courfeyrac said into his ear, “Suffering in silence doesn’t suit you, babe.”

Enjolras looped his little finger in Courfeyrac’s, glanced at the canvases that Grantaire had spent hours hunched over, and finally nodded. “I know. You’re right. Tonight is the night.”

Courfeyrac smiled at him like a proud parent. Of course, a sly, “If you need the apartment to yourself, I’ll find some way to keep Ferre occupied for a few hours…” followed, breaking any semblance to a parent. “But you know what Ferre’s like about missing his bedtime, so I’d suggest getting it out of your system quickly.”

“Right, _thanks,_ Courf,” Enjolras said, hastily scanning the room in case Grantaire was lurking in earshot. “Ugh,” he shrunk, “What if he just quits the opera or something? It’s too complicated and weird… maybe I should just wait until the opera is over. It’s only three more months…”

“ _No,”_ Courfeyrac gaped, mouth ajar, “Are you kidding me? In three months you’re gonna be thinking about graduating, and stressing about auditions for professional orchestras, and _who knows…_ you could get hired by the Vienna Philharmonic Symphony Orchestra or something, and have to leave the country. _Why_ the hell would you leave it until then?”

Enjolras paled at the mere thought of his upcoming onslaught of auditions.

“Just _kiss him!_ ” Courfeyrac pushed at Enjolras’ shoulder, a little more forceful than his every-day touchiness, “Imagine how simple life would be if you hadn’t been ridiculous in reaction to seeing a cute boy.”

A rosy flush came to Enjolras’ cheeks. He thought of their first meeting on the Saint-Michel steps, about the pop-song they wrote together what felt like a million years before, about his first sight of Grantaire singing opera from the wings. “I kind of like how I went about it,” Enjolras turned from pink to scarlet, “We wouldn’t have the opera if I’d been boring.”

Courfeyrac let out a sigh. “You’re unbelievable, my love. Absolutely brilliant, but completely absurd.”

A flutter of a laugh rose in Enjolras’ throat, and all at once the pair began to quake with enormous laughter, collapsing in on each other, trying to silence themselves under judgemental glares, and then cackling even louder.

“Oh,” Enjolras suddenly said, sadness tingeing his sigh, “Oh, Courfeyrac… I’m going to miss you so much when we finish Saint-Michel.”

Courfeyrac stuck his bottom lip out and shook Enjolras by the collars. “I don’t even want to think about that. Let’s just ignore it for now. _Anyway,_ I’m going to follow you around to all the concerts you’re involved in, and try and get into all the orchestras you get into, and completely ride on your fame and glory. You’re going to be so sick of me in three years that you’ll wish you never met me.”

Enjolras grabbed Courfeyrac into his arms and squeezed as tightly as he could, knowing that Courf treasured physical touch like it was oxygen.

“Don’t mistake my dashing good looks for Grantaire’s,” Courfeyrac mumbled, muffled against Enjolras’ chest.

“I love you so much,” Enjolras grinned.

“Oh, I see… this is a practise run for tonight. Where’s the piano to ravish me on? Did you learn _nothing_ from my lessons.”

“Courfeyrac?”

“Yeah?”

“Please shut up.”

 

~*~

Jehan glided onto the stage, shimmering under the stage lights. They held the silence of the crowd in their hands until the moment was right, and began to speak.

It was a poem that Enjolras had heard before, all silken adjectives and barbed nouns, colliding together like ocean waves. Jehan’s poetry was audible art, rolling into ears and touching souls. Whilst reading, Jehan looked at peace, as radiant as a chunk of stardust. Enjolras hollered with applause when Jehan finished, jumping up and down with Combeferre and Courfeyrac ecstatically.

Jehan gave a graceful incline of their head and descended into the crowd, toothy grin immediately on their face as the poet façade dropped. Though too far away to congratulate, Enjolras and his friends gave over-enthusiastic thumbs up to Jehan across the crowd. Jehan beamed and turned to embrace another friend, ethereal.

The lights dimmed, quieting the audience. Grantaire took the stage and Enjolras heard Éponine scream the loudest, but could feel both Courf and Combeferre’s eyes turn straight to him. He attempted to give them a dry stare, but couldn’t tear his eyes from the stage.

 _Oh no,_ he thought.

Because it was not opera Grantaire onstage, with his crisp-cut shirts, fresh face, bright eyes and neatened hair. It was not Saint-Michel Grantaire, with his gemstone pendant, scuffed boots, scruffy hair and lined eyes. Performer Grantaire was something altogether different. His eyes looked darker than usual, lined with silver, his hair so untamed it looked like he had just walked onstage post-make out session - which perhaps he had. His shirt was vaguely vintage, emerald ruffled with billowing sleeves as though plucked from some inaccurate historical drama. Of course, _of course _,__ the sleeves were rolled to his elbows, displaying the stretch of olive skin and crisp black tattoo ink of his forearms. It _had_ to be from his wooing shirt collection, it just _had_ to be. Enjolras forced his eyes to stay above the waist, for Grantaire’s black jeans were so tight it was almost improper. Cradling his guitar he looked like an artists impression of a fallen angel. _No,_ Enjolras thought, _he looked like Dionysus._

Grantaire’s voice was as breath-taking as usual, built on his classical foundations, but somehow rougher in English, with a growl that lay at the back of his throat and raised the hair on Enjolras’ arms. He sung of lost nights in Paris, of the taste of lips and the sweetness of wine. He sung of light eyes and heavy hearts, wondering minds and wandering hands. After five songs, Enjolras stopped hearing the words, just itching for Grantaire to be finished, despite how lovely he sounded. At the end of each song he applauded, heart leaping, just to wait once more as Grantaire picked out enticing riffs on his guitar. Finally, after a half an hour, that felt like half a century, Grantaire smiled and thanked the audience, hoisting his guitar onto his back and skipping down the steps like a stone, sending a ripple to where Enjolras stood.

Patron-Minette began to set up their equipment, Éponine making light-hearted banter as they prepared.

Enjolras looked to his two friends.

“Go!” they said in unison, and then laughed. Enjolras took the deepest breath he had inhaled that day, and pushed through the crowd, apologising profusely.

Grantaire was staring up to the stage, laughing at something Guelulemer had said.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said, and then a little louder to compete with the sound of the crowd, “Grantaire!”

He turned, eyes brightening as he saw Enjolras. “Enjolras! I didn’t know you were here!”

“I need to talk to you,” Enjolras said, glowing with electricity.

“What? _I can’t hear you… _”__ Patron-Minette had just began to play, and they were stood directly in front of the speaker.

Enjolras beckoned Grantaire outside. A lightning bolt of bravery surged through him, and he dropped his hand into Grantaire’s, pulling them both from the heat of the small, crammed venue.

Grantaire looked down at their hands, cheeks flushed from the warmth, eyes sparkling from post-performance bliss. “I have a slight feeling this isn’t about the opera,” he laughed, his voice hoarse.

“No,” Enjolras felt as though he had no oxygen in his lungs, “Well kind of…” he stuttered, “Oh goodness, I don’t know how to say this.”

“Say what?” Grantaire cocked his head, his dark eyebrows anchoring down across his forehead.

“I never struggled at putting words together until you came into the picture,” Enjolras said.

“I think you’re a very eloquent young man,” Grantaire half-laughed, teasing. “What was it that you wanted to say?” he grinned, leaning closer with a darkness clouding his eyes.

“You were so wonderful," Enjolras said, “It felt like I was watching one of your paintings.”

Grantaire laughed and his breath was shockingly close to Enjolras’ face. “Was that all?”

“No.” Enjolras’ eyes flickered to Grantaire’s lips, within a breath away. He smiled and laid a finger on Grantaire’s collar, feeling both the flouncy silk and the warmth of Grantaire’s skin below. “You were right. The shirt always works.”

“Oh?” Grantaire looked down to Enjolras’ palm on his chest, eyelashes grazing over the planes of his cheekbones.

“I’m well and truly wooed,” Enjolras said, a bizarre polarity of solemness and the urge to giggle flourishing in his throat.

As quietly as he could muster, Grantaire said, "I…” he looked up, and his eyes were not filled with mischief and humour. They were not sparkling with playful teasing or sarcastic comments. They were so open and large that Enjolras swore he could see the stars reflected within. “I’d like to kiss you…” If that sentence was not everything Enjolras had hoped to hear, the next words that fell from Grantaire’s mouth certainly were. “Permets-tu?” Grantaire asked, three delightful syllables, not quite translatable into another tongue. _If you let me…_ it said… _if you want me to._

 _Did he permit it?_ Enjolras felt a deep-rooted, instinctual tug that said no matter the universe, his answer would be the same.

He slipped his hand into Grantaire’s once more and closed the gap between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooooooooooooooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmgggggggg finallyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy  
> I know I posted the last chapter like 2 days ago bUT THIS NEEDED TO BE OUT HERE. The slow burn is OVER. HELL YEAH. I shouldn't be this excited about my own choice to write two fictional characters finally kissing, but here we ARE.
> 
> Let me know what you thought of this chapter? What do you wanna see next ;) Thanks for all your lovely comments - I'm AGHAST at how delightful they all are! :D


	13. Unsion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire's lips are the sweetest music Enjolras has ever tasted.

Kissing Grantaire was at once very similar to how Enjolras had imagined it would be, and somehow altogether a surprise as well.

He imagined it would have been been soft and sweet and a little dangerous. He had imagined the heat and the weight of Grantaire’s hands heavy on his skin.

Still, he marvelled at the feel of fingers against his neck, against his lower back, the downy curls coiled in his palms. He was starstruck by the lips he had been fixated by, finally on his own, moving in a well-practised dance. Kissing Grantaire, although lovely as expected, was more of a phenomena than he could have hoped to guess.

Enjolras’ hand, resting on the bottom of Grantaire’s shirt, twisted until his thumb found bare skin, and grazed up across the toned planes of Grantaire’s hip.

Grantaire broke away with the smallest of gasps, staring at Enjolras with eyes darker and hungrier than ever, his chest stuttered, and Enjolras had never seen him so electrified.

They surged together again, with enough sparking energy to power a small town. Kissing Jehan was like kissing a summer day, slow and lazy and comforting, but kissing Grantaire was like sitting too close to a fire, warm and smoky, and seconds away from engulfing Enjolras in flames.

He slinked a palm into the ruffles of Grantaire’s shirt and pulled until not an inch of space lay between them, until the entirety of Grantaire was against him, until his heart felt like it was going to explode in his chest.

Grantaire’s hands cupped Enjolras’ cheeks, calloused at the fingertips from playing guitar, perfectly fitting against the contour of his cheekbones. He pulled away, leaving Enjolras’ face between his palms, pressed the tiniest of chaste kisses on Enjolras’ lips and stepped backwards.

Silence whispered past them, Enjolras suddenly feeling very cold where Grantaire’s fingers no longer lay.

“Oh my God,” Enjolras breathed.

“Finally,” Grantaire said, lips rosy, a smear of gold against his cheek. “I wasn’t sure how much longer I was going to survive without doing that.”

“Same,” Enjolras felt very ineloquent. “I’ve wanted to… do that for a while now.”

“I’ve had my suspicions,” Grantaire smiled and quirked his head, “But I was under the impression that you didn’t want to complicate the opera…”

With the taste of Grantaire still on his lips, Enjolras was unsure how he had ever coped through all the weeks of silent longing. “Let’s complicate it…”

“Well, I’m good at that,” Grantaire laughed, stealing a kiss from Enjolras’ throat, and the breath from his lungs.

Enjolras thought to the long winding path that had led to a simple kiss. “Me too,” he huffed, “A bit too good at it.”

“Not the only thing you’re a bit too good at,” Grantaire said with a roguish wink, a slinky sort of smile creeping onto his lips. “Man of many talents…”

Grantaire laughed against Enjolras’ mouth, and did something wondrous with his teeth that made Enjolras shudder.

“Oh,” Enjolras said quietly, as though all of his wishes had come true.

“ _Oh_ indeed,” Grantaire straightened the collar of Enjolras’ shirt. “But let’s not get carried away… Ép will kill me if I miss her whole performance.”

“Is that so bad?”

Grantaire slanted an eyebrow. “You clearly have never been on the wrong side of Éponine.”

“I kind of want to risk it.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Grantaire slunk away from Enjolras’ crawling hand, a feral smile on his face. “I think you need to learn a little patience, Enjolras. Good things come to those who wait.” He laughed and spun on his heel, sliding back into the hall, flashing his stamped hand to the guard, and casting a heavy, filthy sort of glance on Enjolras as he disappeared.

 

The weight that Grantaire left behind was enormous. The air was suddenly harder to breathe. Enjolras had to sit on the wall to reacclimatise to post-kissing-Grantaire life, and the biting wind helped take the edge off. He thought of all the mouths that had kissed Grantaire, and wondered how they could ever go on living and kissing other mouths that were not Grantaire’s.

He must have been sat outside for a while, because Jehan arrived, cheered his name and sat beside him on the pavement.

“You look radiant, my love,” they said, waving over some artist friends. “We were just going to have a perfectly legal cigarette where the security guard can’t see us,” Jehan smiled. Enjolras watched the process as a thin strip of brown paper became a joint, crackling as it lit up in Jehan’s fingers, and smelling so strong that Enjolras immediately felt heady.

“Jehan,” Enjolras whispered, eyeing Jehan as they passed the joint to a friend.

“My darling, no one is going to see you consorting with us libertines,” Jehan’s eyes twinkled under heavy lids, “Your pristine record as Saint-Michel’s angel goes untarnished.”

“It’s not that,” Enjolras couldn’t even register how unimportant his reputation at Saint-Michel felt in that moment. “I just kissed Grantaire.”

“Oh,” Jehan bathed their face in the moonlight, “It’s lovely, isn’t it? I think everyone in the world should kiss Grantaire once… the world would be a better place… Did he do the collarbone thing?” Jehan’s voice drawled like a lazy Sunday morning.

“Um,” Enjolras should have known to seek out Combeferre or Courfeyrac if he was seeking a fanfare, “No…?”

“You’re in for a treat,” Jehan smiled. “Well… welcome to the club… to be honest, I’m surprised it took you so long.”

“What do I do now?”

Jehan exhaled a blur of smoke and blinked softly, resting their head on Enjolras’ knee. “Kiss him again?” They reached a hand into Enjolras’ hair and swiped his cheekbone with a thumb. “You definitely have a glow about you, my love. Very… sunshiney.” Jehan passed the joint along and floated up to their feet. “Anyway, I’ve got to run my event, so I’ll see you later guys! Enj… you coming?”

Enjolras followed Jehan back through the gallery and into the crowd. Éponine was cradling the microphone and singing of a love lost, as the Patron-Minette band gelled together in a heart-wrenching, crunchy, discordant kind of sound. He felt an arm snake around his hips and a curly head flop onto his chest, and his heart stuttered, but it was Courfeyrac.

“They’re so good it hurts,” Courf said. “I wish they needed a flautist.”

“You should ask if they do,” Enjolras laughed, imagining the bizarre image of Courfeyrac playing with Patron-Minette.

Jehan’s evening was winding down, and eventually Enjolras was left with the few stragglers at the end of the night. A few orchestra members were aiding Jehan with taking down all of the paintings.

“Where’s the artist for this fine piece?” Éponine joked, marvelling at Grantaire’s brush-stroked depiction of herself. 

Enjolras peeked beneath his eyelashes.

“Haven’t seen him all night,” Gueulemer commented, wrapping one of the canvases in bubble-wrap. “He’s probably up to no good.”

“That’s my R,” Éponine grinned. “Hey boys…” she smiled, feral, “Yes, _you_ Enjolras. Are you coming to the afterparty?”

“Can’t,” Courfeyrac huffed, “Said I’d help ‘Ferre with his diss.”

Éponine crossed her eyes. “Jehan? Enjolras? _Anyone? _”__

“Yeah,” Enjolras cleared his throat, “Yeah. I’ll come.”

Courfeyrac gasped like a Victorian maiden. “ _Betrayal! _”__ he cried, “A _knife to the back!_  Enj, you can’t go out partying while I’m stuck _in_ studying. It’s not right. The world will crumble in shock!”

Éponine hooked arms with Enjolras and sloppily kissed his cheek. “Hey, shut it you,” she pointed a sharpened fingernail at Courfeyrac, “We’re going to have the best party _ever _,__ and you can’t ruin our fun, nerd!”

“Yeah,” Enjolras teased, “Work on your dissertation.”

Courfeyrac swooned with a hand to his chest, “Catch me, ‘Parnasse! I am wounded.”

Montparnasse looked up from across the room, shrugged and turned back to wrapping one of Jehan’s paintings.

“Rude!” Courfeyrac shook his head. “You’re all terrible.” He checked his phone and huffed. “Better be on my way before Daddy Ferre grounds me.” He hugged the nearest people to him and swept Enjolras into his arms. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he said with a wink, and Enjolras laughed even though it was the sort of thing Courfeyrac always said. “I’ll get Ferre to schedule a highly important meeting over brunch tomorrow to discuss _everything_.”

Enjolras felt compelled to protest with a haughty, __‘_ there will be nothing to discuss,'_but the words froze on his tongue, because for the first time, perhaps there _would_ be a lot to discuss. He couldn’t hide his blooming smile.

The ride to Grantaire’s house felt as though it took hours, the metro trains not running due to the lateness of the hour. Patron-Minette and Enjolras lugged canvases and instruments like a patchwork travelling circus.

“I’m going to kill R,” Ép complained as they finally clattered through the front door. She dumped five of his paintings on the floor. “R! _Grantaire! _”__ she called, but the name echoed into the emptiness. She rolled her eyes with a huff. “He owes us big time for lugging all his stuff across Paris…Boys… Jehan… let’s destroy our lungs a bit more.” They all traipsed into the back garden to smoke, but Enjolras waited inside, hearing their voices loud and punctuated with punchy laughter, faint through the walls.

His fingers itched to his phone, but instead he neatened Grantaire’s paintings and poured a glass of water. He eventually joined the congregation outside, pressed in between bodies and filled with a warmth that staved off the cold Parisian winds. Hours passed, drinking Éponine’s rather terrible Irish coffee - bitter coffee granules with boiling water and way too much vodka.

Enjolras was giggling at Jehan’s handstand antics, when he noticed the sky turning pink. “Oh my God!” he jumped up, swaying a little as his head spun. “I’m meant to be working tomorrow… _today… Oh my goodness!”_

“Enj, my angel,” Éponine protested, “Give it a rest. Just go to sleep. You aren’t gonna die if you don’t compose for a day.”

Enjolras laughed like she had said the funniest thing he had ever heard. “No, no, no, no,” he babbled, “The world of classical music doesn’t stop for a day. I’m gonna walk home. It will sober me up.”

Jehan hugged Enjolras. “You should get drunk more often, my love. You’re adorable. Isn’t he?”

The group all enthusiastically agreed, and Enjolras flushed pink, giggling some more. “Hey,” he said, the word ‘adorable’ suddenly blaring like stage lights in his mind, “Where the hell is Grantaire?”

“Oh, Enjolras,” Montparnasse pouted, “He’s a wandering soul. It’s best to not imagine where he is dwelling at this time in the morning. I’m not sure you’d like the answer.”

“ _Parnasse!”_ Jehan whispered, upside down again. “Enj, darling. I know what you’re like, but Grantaire might not have the same exact intentions as you do, and you can’t be upset if he’s doing something that you wouldn’t do.”

Babet frowned, not a man of many words. “What they’re trying to say is that R is probably hooking up with someone he’ll never see again.”

Clueless, Éponine nodded. “He’s always the worst after a performance. If he’s had his guitar out, it’s a guarantee he’s getting something else _out_ that night. Moody guitar playing boys get a lot of groupies… More than dazzling, badass lead vocalist ladies… but I’m not _bitter _.”__

Jehan’s eyes turned mournful. “Or he could be walking around Paris. His wandering soul doesn’t _just_ lead him into bedrooms.”

“Ha!” Éponine shrugged, “Maybe.”

“So… Grantaire…” Enjolras said lightly, “Doesn’t tend to wait for things?”

“I don’t think R has waited for anything in his life,” Claquesous snorted.

“Oh,” Enjolras suddenly felt a lot less giggly. “Well… I better go.”

They all bade their goodbyes and Enjolras wandered into the street, the words ‘ _good things come to those who wait _,’__ aching in his mind. Firstly, he was impressed at his ability to walk in a straight line, but secondly the image of Grantaire’s ruffled shirt, that Enjolras’ hands had been coiled in just hours before, on the floor of some anonymous face’s bedroom, made him feel all sorts of numb and cold sensations. _Of course,_ he had no say in who Grantaire chose to sleep with, but he had sort of hoped that for one night he could have been part of that decision.

At his flat, he was ready to collapse into bed for a few hours before Combeferre’s obnoxious morning gong woke him and he started work on the opera again.

At the door, he slipped off his boots, slipped the lock onto the latch and crept into the living room. His heart softened at the sight of a curly haired head swaddled in a blanket on the couch.

“Courf,” Enjolras whispered, “Courf, go and sleep in your room. You know it’s not healthy to keep sleeping on the sofa.” Courfeyrac didn’t stir, which was strange, as he was usually an incredibly light sleeper. Enjolras chucked a pillow at Courfeyrac’s dozing body and unbuttoned his coat, staring from the window. “He didn’t even show up to the after party, so… so much for _that _,__ hey?”

A moment of silence passed before Enjolras heard a bleary, quiet, _“What?”_

His blood froze.

That was not Courfeyrac’s voice.

Enjolras turned slowly. Hazy, golden and looking like a painting, Grantaire sat up on the sofa, rubbed his eyes, still on the cusp of sleep.  

“Grantaire?” Enjolras whispered, chest aching at the mere sight of him.

“What?” Grantaire’s voice was crackled and flickery like an old record.

“What are you doing here?”

Grantaire looked at him, green eyes glassy in the watery sunlight, “I was waiting for you.”

“Waiting for me?” Enjolras had perhaps had far too much to drink for this bombshell.

“Yeah,” Grantaire sat up fully, and the blanket fell to reveal the olive planes of Grantaire’s chest. It was a mixture of this sight, and the noticing of Grantaire’s shirt folded neatly on the coffee table, that made Enjolras’ heart beat a thousand times faster. “Where were you?”

Enjolras laughed and then couldn’t find a way to stop. “I was waiting for you,” he choked out between giggles. He sunk down onto the sofa, body still shaking in laughter. “I was waiting for you,” he said again when he composed himself, and instantly couldn’t live without feeling the warmth of Grantaire’s skin.

He ran a hand across Grantaire’s cheekbone and in somewhat of a blur, they were kissing again, and Enjolras cursed all the hours he had wasted _not kissing Grantaire. It was softer and lazier than before, like Grantaire’s lips hadn’t quite woken up either. Somehow Enjolras was on Grantaire’s lap, and this made him laugh too, because he wasn’t sure if he had ever sat on anyone’s lap before._

_God _,__  the silken, warm curls of Grantaire’s dark hair between his fingers was everything he could have dreamed of, and in his head symphonies blared to life, and melodies wrote themselves. Grantaire nuzzled into his shoulder, until his lips were weighty and pressed against Enjolras’ collarbone, his teeth grazing skin that Enjolras had never known to be so sensitive.

Enjolras gasped, the symphonies replaced with pure, white noise, spots blinking under his eyelids like he had hit his head. _The collarbone thing _.__ Enjolras was glad for Jehan’s slight warning, because if such a sensation had arrived completely out of the blue, Enjolras was sure he would have died on the spot.

“I think you’re making me believe in God,” Enjolras blurted, breathy. He felt the rumble of Grantaire’s laugh quaking beneath him.

“I’ve never been accused of that before,” Grantaire’s lips were rosy, “In fact I usually have the _opposite_ effect. My church was horrified by how much of a cynic I turned out to be.”

“Church?”

“Shh, shh,” Grantaire said pressing his lips to Enjolras’ shoulder and Enjolras couldn’t bear to talk any longer.  

After a brief silence, Enjolras added, “I don’t think you’re a cynic.”

Grantaire laughed again and pulled away, “Talking kind of defeats the point… think of all the things our lips could be doing…”

“I don’t, though,” Enjolras said.

“That’s because I believe in great things, and you and your opera are pretty wonderful.”

Enjolras felt a warmth blazing inside like a sauna, and he kissed the edge of Grantaire’s ear. “I think you are pretty wonderful, too. And so is this…” he melted into Grantaire once more and wondered how he would ever live without Grantaire’s lips on his at all times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who is hyppeeeeeeeeed?! the chapter everyone (including me) has been waiting for loll enjoy today's speciality: 'making out with music metaphors.'
> 
> soooooo happy they're happy! 
> 
> hope you're enjoying, please let me know what you thought, any comment makes my day! :)


	14. Duet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then they were one. 
> 
> The duet of Enjolras and Grantaire finally plays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lil potential tw heads up (slightly spoilery)
> 
> -  
> -  
> -  
> -  
> there is some *sexual content* here, though not super explicit by any means, but just a warning if that ain't your thing!

From the instant morning set in, Enjolras knew it was going to be a strange sort of day.

_“What the hell was that?”_  Grantaire yelped, losing his balance and sprawling backwards onto the floor. A crashing sound had filled the apartment with a melodic earthquake.

Enjolras covered his mouth, partly in shock, and somewhat to hide a laugh. “Oh no!” he said, “The morning gong!”

_“What the hell is the morning gong?”_ Grantaire said, eyes wide.

“’Ferre’s way of making us be productive,” Enjolras explained, “Seven A.M. every day.”

“Oh my God,” Grantaire groaned, voice weary, “That’s my idea of hell.”

Enjolras heaved Grantaire off the floor. “It kind of works,” he said, “Not so much if you don’t sleep, I suppose.”

“Precisely,” Grantaire gave a lazy sort of smile, “And everybody knows that days are made for sleeping, and nights are best for other things...”

Whatever Enjolras could have retorted, it was silenced by Combeferre striding in, letting out a yell, and running from the lounge, covering his eyes. “Sorry, sorry, _sorry!”_ he called. “What is the rule about that couch? It is _communal!”_

Enjolras caught Grantaire’s eye, giving him a bemused look. “’Ferre,” he said back, “It’s fine, we’re just talking.”

_“Naked?”_ Combeferre said through the wall.

Enjolras eyed Grantaire’s golden skin, stretching out. Perhaps from the wrong angle, the scene looked like something it was not. “Shirtless…” Grantaire said, “Well, I am.” He yawned and rolled his neck. “It’s alright, though, Combeferre, you can look all you want. A body is a body, nothing more.”

Combeferre peeked back into the room, his hair flattened on one side. “Well, well, well,” he said, fixing Enjolras with a piercing stare, “What a surprise! What an unexpected twist to the tale. What a…”

“Alright, ‘Ferre,” Enjolras interrupted, “What did you want?”

“Anybody want a tea?” he smiled widely, “We have green, peppermint, chamomile, earl grey, lady grey, jasmine, apple and ginger, lemon and ginger… Well, what would you like? We probably have it.”

“I’m alright thanks,” Grantaire said, “I find only a disgustingly strong coffee can do me any good at this ungodly hour.”

“Talking of ungodly hours,” Combeferre said with a grin, “What time did you get back, Enjolras? Grantaire’s been waiting here for ages.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes and dabbed at the edge of his lips, which felt traitorously pink. “Grantaire, do you want a disgustingly strong coffee? We grind our own coffee beans… Do you want to wait in my room?”

 

Combeferre looked as though his birthday and Christmas had come all at once. He turned back to the kitchen, giving Enjolras a raised brow behind Grantaire’s back.

Enjolras switched on Combeferre’s expensive coffee machine, frothing an oat milk for his own latte and pressing the ground coffee.

_“Well,”_ Combeferre said smugly.

“Alright, Combeferre,” Enjolras sniffed, “No need for that tone.”

“Enjolras, I’m happy for you,” Combeferre grinned, “Of course I am! I’ve been so sick of your pining… maybe you’ll actually be able to write all of the happy love songs for the opera now.”

Enjolras drowned out his silence with the whir of the coffee machine.

“Just remember,” Combeferre said, taking a sip of his bergamot tea, and staring at Enjolras evenly, “Remember yourself…” a frown took up space on his forehead, “I know you can forget your needs sometimes... At the end of the day, it’s just an opera and just a boy.”

With two coffees in hand, glowing golden in the morning light, Enjolras smiled, “It’s always been about an opera and a boy, ‘Ferre.”

“It’s about you, too,” Combeferre frowned deeper. “Eat an orange or something. A composer is no good without nutrients, and you look exhausted. Anyway, we’re rehearsing at eleven sharp, and nothing changes that, so be ready.”

“Yes, boss,” Enjolras said with a wink, having to restrain the deep urge to sprint back to his room and cartwheel through the door.

 

As he pushed open his door, the sight of Grantaire perched on the edge of his bed felt dangerously illicit. He tried to look at his room with fresh eyes, wondering what Grantaire’s eyes would catch on for the first time. The space was minimalistic - not much to define character. He had grown up with far too much - too much gold gilded on bedposts and bannisters, too much colour threaded through antique rugs and paintings, too much marble, too much silk, too many pillows and sheets and mahogany wardrobes.

“I was expecting more instruments,” Grantaire said, amused.

“Courfeyrac makes me leave the instruments in the main room, he says I can be obsessive if I have non-stop access to them, and he was sick of hearing it through the wall in the middle of the night.”

Grantaire’s gaze swept over the bookshelf crammed with sheet music, loose leafs of yellowing paper stacked next to hundreds of pristinely bound books. Perhaps the only blip in Enjolras’ muted room were the thousands of pieces of music lined against his wall.

“Of course,” Grantaire hopped up and lightly skimmed a finger across the shelves, “Alphabetised and arranged by date. I expected nothing less.”

“Your appreciation of my alphabetised sheet music is really sexy,” Enjolras joked, “Talk librarian to me.”

Grantaire snorted as he gently pulled a tome from the shelf, flicking open to a middle page. “Oh, Enjolras,” he said softly, “This is adorable.”

Over Grantaire’s shoulder, Enjolras saw the manuscript paper for a Mahler symphony, with so many tiny scribbles written on it, that the page crawled with ink.

“Oh, I conducted this one at high school,” Enjolras said, as he took the music he felt transported into his sixteen year old body. He remembered the hours he had spent creating sound profiles for each instrument, and writing a thousand notes for how each musical phrase ought to be played. The orchestra must have hated him. He once had an hour long debate with his begrudging violinists over how to play a bar _airily_ enough.

“Quite the prodigy,” Grantaire remarked.

Enjolras felt his cheeks redden. “I don’t know about that,” he said, “I just work hard… Like you… with your paintings, and your songwriting, and your opera…”

It was Grantaire’s turn to look bashful.

“Seriously, Grantaire. Seeing you sing… it was like… it was like your words were alive and…” Enjolras blushed deeper, “I don’t know how to say it.”

Grantaire took Enjolras’ hand to stop him from speaking, “I know. I feel the same way when you play, too.” His attention snapped elsewhere in the room, his tone lightening, “Sexiest era of music?”

“Romantic, all the way,” Enjolras said without missing a beat, “Ugh, Chopin, Debussy, it’s the closest we’ll ever get to heaven on Earth.”

Grantaire momentarily scrolled through his phone, grinning as Debussy’s Rêverie began to trickle through his speakers. “I’ve chosen a lot of make-out playlists in my time, and never has anyone requested Debussy.”

“Clearly you’re missing out on a lot,” Enjolras shrugged, “I don’t think there’s anything more intimate than a solo piano… that blend of timbres from pulsing, rich, heavy low notes to the thrill of lightness and melodic breathiness of the high notes…” he closed his eyes, “And _that_ _rubato _…__ the ‘robbing time,’ that pull and push beneath the tempo, the slightest of pauses before a climax… god, there’s nothing like it.”

Grantaire laughed and pulled Enjolras closer, “Woah there… It sounds like someone needs an ice cold shower…”

“You’ll see,” Enjolras said with a smile, close enough that Grantaire’s smile was almost on his own, and it was almost a shame to hide it when Grantaire looked so achingly like a ray of sunshine.

“Show me, then,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras needed no further tempting.

 

“Convinced?” Enjolras asked, a while later, feeling spaced out on endorphins. They had made their way to a half-vertical position, Enjolras leant against his headboard.

Grantaire gave a wicked smile, his chest pulsing like there was a pair of wings inside bursting to escape. “Convinced.” His finger traced over Enjolras’ jaw and he looked for a moment too long, Enjolras turning rosy. “Debussy would be rolling in his grave.”

“It’s called the _Romantic_ era,” Enjolras said, still in disbelief that Grantaire’s skin was against his own, “It was written for sex.”

The room felt a little heavier, and as Enjolras made to kiss Grantaire’s shoulder, Grantaire pulled away and sat on his heels. “Okay, lets have a talk.”

“A talk?” Enjolras squinted, “Think of all the better things our lips could be doing,” he echoed Grantaire’s earlier words, but he only smiled and remained too far away. “Now?”

“It’s the perfect time.” Grantaire said, “The only time.”

“You don’t have to worry,” Enjolras sat up, “I’m not going to be all like needy and clingy, I’ve had flings before.” He pushed his hair out of his face, and tried with all his might not to blush. “I know… I know I’m not as… experienced as you, but you don’t need to worry.”

A frown furrowed its way onto Grantaire’s brow. “Oh, Enjolras,” he sounded soft and sad, “That wasn’t what I meant. This isn’t about me adding your name to some list of people I call when I’m bored or lonely,” he reached for Enjolras’ hand, and his palm was warm and firm, “This is about being open and honest, so that we can mutually enjoy ourselves, without you worrying that I’m some sex-crazed lunatic who is using you for your virginal beauty,” he laughed.

Enjolras’ mind was not on having lengthy discussions. “I’m not a virgin,” he said, cursing his flaming cheeks, “So you don’t have to tread so gently.” He reached forwards, but Grantaire swerved, his eyes bright and mischievous.

“That’s what I’m saying… it doesn’t matter if you are or you aren’t, or if I was or if I wasn’t,” Grantaire said reasonably, Enjolras snorted, “It doesn’t matter how many people, or how often, or any of that nonsense. All that matters is you and me… This moment… And what you want, and what I want… what __we__ want.”

“I want you to stop talking,” Enjolras said lightly,  gazing up through his eyelashes.

“I’m just going to say this so you don’t get all over-thinky later… I want to be here… And not just because I like sex, but because I like you, Enj.”

Enjolras felt his whole body swell with warmth.

“And it’s just sex. It doesn’t have to change anything about the opera whatsoever. So… don’t freak out about that,” Grantaire said evenly, “Nothing will be different on that front.”

“Grantaire…” Enjolras said, groaning slightly, “I don’t want to talk about the opera now…”

“I don’t want to move too fast for you.”

“Seriously… do you have this discussion with everyone?”

_“Yes,"_ Grantaire said, impassioned, “It’s so important to be transparent with one another. If you want to hold back a little, or even if you just decide that you don’t want to do anything… that’s your call, and I entirely respect that.”  

“Well, I feel well and truly transparent to my core,” Enjolras beamed, “And to be even more transparent… I’ve sort of dreamed of this since the moment you said that I would look pretty good horizontal…”

Finally Grantaire laughed and leached some of the blush out of Enjolras’ cheeks. “Well, good,” he swung a leg over Enjolras’ waist, and pressed a feather-light kiss to his jawbone. “Then we’ve both been dreaming about the same thing.” He laughed, the sound rolling through Enjolras’ muscles, “Apologies once again for that awful line,” he said against Enjolras’ neck.

“No apology needed,” Enjolras arched his head to give Grantaire better access, “It worked.”

And then they were one.

Then they were music. Grantaire was the pulsing, rich, heavy lowness to Enjolras’ thrill of lightness and melodic breathiness. Grantaire was both more serious, and more wild than Enjolras had witnessed, his eyes fluttered shut, as though his eyelids were too heavy to open.

Grantaire’s fingers flicked though the buttons against Enjolras’ chest, baring his skin inch by inch, and then all at once. “Enjolras,” he breathed, kissing against the bruises on his neck left by hours of violin practise, against the shredded fingertips and fingers scarred by a lifetime pressed into strings.

Skin to skin, heart to heart, their lives echoed together. Each tiny movement thrummed through Enjolras’ veins like the movement of a sonata. It had never felt like this before, it had felt like fumbling hands and desire and racing towards a an end, but now every touch was another addition to their private symphony. Each breath was a feathery flute line, each sweep of a hand a chromatic, heavy brass sound, each fingernail imprint on skin a violin soaring, and each curve of a mouth a low, longing bass under everything they did. Each second was not rushed, but lasted precisely as long as it should: not an action to reach an endpoint, but to enrich the music of themselves.

Enjolras, hair mussed across his white sheets, lips parted and as pink as blossom, looked as devastating as an angel, it almost hurt Grantaire to look on such beauty bared before him. However, when Enjolras looked on Grantaire, it did not hurt, it felt like it was all that he could do. His dark hair rippled in movement, his eyes wrought with a lustful heaviness, and his skin burning with fever, Enjolras’ could do nothing but drink in his Dionysian intensity.

They breathed together, each hitch catching in their throats, and growing in fervour.

“Oh my… Granta- R… Oh my _God _…”__ Enjolras curled his fingernails into Grantaire’s hair, who shuddered at the sensation. Each move they made set off a chain reaction, they were an echo of one another, a well-conducted duet.

For all of Enjolras’ musings on Grantaire’s forearms, they were a delight to finally feel the weight of, for all of the moments wasted dreaming of those long fingers, it was explosive to feel them working against his skin, deft and artful - they were both talented musicians, and they were perhaps even better at playing the instrument of each other’s bodies.

If they were a symphony, they were a long one. Explorative and playful at times, then soft and longing, progressing to stirring and tension-filled. They modulated through feelings, and drew towards their cadence, their final resolve. They built together, Grantaire curling his hand into Enjolras’ palm.

The timpani rumbled, the strings fluttered and soared, trilling in ecstasy, the bass climbed and climbed, until it could climb no more.

_“Enjolras,”_ Grantaire choked, his voice sweeter than it had ever sounded.

Enjolras blinked, barely able to draw a word from his lungs, “I…” he managed before crushing their fingers closer together, burying his face into Grantaire’s shoulder, and feeling all the euphoria of a well-resolved sonata wash over him, bathe him from head to toe.

In the few moments after, their symphony fell away to nothing, their breathing clattering loud in the silence. Enjolras slowly began to hear the distant Debussy playlist surging from Grantaire’s phone - it felt faraway and from a long ago history.

He sat slowly, stars dancing behind his eyelids, imagining that Grantaire would want to slink into his trousers and leave with a dark smile and heavy eyes.

“Where are you going?” Grantaire said softly, sweat straggling a few strands of hair to his forehead, pupils blown. He reeled Enjolras back to his side and curled against his shoulder like a content cat. “Who said we were finished?” he breathed raggedly, placing a weighty kiss fully on Enjolras’ lips before softening and drifting into unconsciousness.

Enjolras, with little capacity in his brain to take in any information, decided that the best thing to do would be to fall asleep too, and deal with all the words and sentiments he wished to voice once he awoke.

Debussy still playing in the background, they slept, their breaths still in sync, their hearts still echoing through one another’s chest, still palm in palm. Even the most virtuosic music must be balanced with silence for its beauty to be felt.

They had been the most powerful of pieces, worthy of heart-racing and standing-ovations, but asleep they were an empty symphony house, dark, quiet and elegant, with the memory of music still aching within their walls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my BOYS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . is this not just everything I ever hoped for? communication... mutual understanding.... sex draped in wayyyy too many musical metaphors.......
> 
> THANK YOU FOR READING I'm kind of blown away by how many reads this has?!?!?
> 
> Please leave me a comment if you enjoyed, they're super motivating to write more and I loooooooooove to know what you think!!!! :D <3


	15. Prelude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras struggles to be the Singular-Minded-and-Immensely-Focused-Composer he ought to be, and on that front, Grantaire is no help at all.

Grantaire flinched in Enjolras’ arms at the sound of the morning gong. The neon red of Enjolras’ alarm glaringly told them it was already half twelve.

“We’re late,” Enjolras winced, feeling more tired than he ever had, the after-effects of Éponine’s deadly alcoholic coffee finally piercing his skull. He groaned and tried to hide in the pillow. “Let’s ignore them…”

“ _Enjolras_ ,” Grantaire said, scandalised, “Remember what I said?” he pulled Enjolras into a seated position, and chucked his shirt across his chest. “This doesn’t change anything. Get dressed and teach me how to sing the opera we’re performing in _three months _.”__

Enjolras slithered his arms into the silken sleeves and tried to neaten his downy fluff of hair. “I knew this would complicate things…” he said with a smile.

Grantaire scoffed and zipped his fly. “It hasn’t.”

“It has…” Enjolras pouted, “Because now I can’t stop thinking about what I’d rather be doing with you…”

“That’s very much to do with your own self-restraint, Enj,” Grantaire fussed with his hair, and lifted a shoulder in an easy shrug, “I can’t wait for you to teach me opera,” he smiled. “Gotta find my shirt… see you out there, Mr.Singular-Minded-and-Immensely-Focused-Composer.” He placed a soft kiss at Enjolras’ throat, “Goodbye, strange new easily-distracted Enjolras.”

“I’m not easily-distracted,” Enjolras said, wriggling into his jeans, “I just think I should rewrite the Aria now that I’ve actually seen you… well… at the _height_ of your pleasure,” he kept his voice offhanded, and tried not to feel too pleased as Grantaire’s lips quivered, wordless, and his eyelashes crushed against his cheeks. “And I should probably see it a few more times… for artistic research.”

Grantaire laughed, his stomach rolling. “You’re making it really hard for me to leave.”

Enjolras swept his folder into his arms and scribbled some more notes, “Sorry… I don’t know who you’re mistaking me for… I’m a Singular-Minded-and-Immensely-Focused-Composer… I’m just stating for the record, that there’s a lot of things I’d like to do to you, to help me find Dionysus’ true voice…”

“You’re ridiculous,” Grantaire smiled, but Enjolras noticed the pulsing blush on his cheeks as he turned to find his shirt. In the second before Grantaire inched from the door, he said lightly, “Where would you start?”

Their eyes caught, and Enjolras knew they were playing a dangerous game right before rehearsal. His eyes flickered downwards, “I’d like to taste you… and then kiss you until you can taste yourself on my lips,” Grantaire’s own lips parted a fraction, and it was impossible not to notice the stutter in his chest, “And then I would-” Enjolras’ words were silenced by a frantic beating of the morning gong. “ _We’re coming, ‘Ferre!”_ he shouted through the wall, hearing Courfeyrac laugh loudly enough to be audible through brick. “Go and find your shirt then,” Enjolras said, wanting to put off facing his friends for as long as possible.

 

When he slunk out of his room a few moments later, he tried to ignore all three pairs of eyes that swung towards him. Courfeyrac, already naturally smiley, was beaming from ear-to-ear. “Have a great rehearsal, boys,” he turned, softly humming Debussy under his breath.

“A great _late_ rehearsal,” Combeferre stared them both down, and it struck Enjolras again how excellent a teacher Combeferre would make.

“Sorry, ‘Ferre,” he said with a stretch.

“No,” Combeferre narrowed his eyes, “I’m being serious. I’m letting you get away with it today, but from now on, being late for rehearsal is as much of a cardinal sin as it should be,” Combeferre dared them to challenge him. “If Joly was late for every orchestra practice, would you let him use his significant others as an excuse?”

Enjolras ducked his head, shame pooling in his cheeks, “No. No, you’re right.”

“And he has _two_ … So he would have double the excuse.”

Suitably chastised, Enjolras spread the sheet music out, dog-earing the pages to make them easier to turn.

“Enj, you can play the piano today,” Combeferre said, “I want to hear it from an outsider’s perspective… Oh, I spoke to Cosette this morning, and she’s up for a rehearsal with us all to see how she fits.”

“Sweet,” Grantaire said, cracking his neck. “I think she’ll love it. Hey, if you’re in need of other singers, I can reach out to some of my opera friends?”

Combeferre grinned, “That would be excellent! We’re in dire need of a Greek chorus, aren’t we, Enj?”

Enjolras nodded, trying to ignore the weight of Grantaire’s presence beside him. “Okay, should we go through the new one?”  

“No,” Combeferre said, lips too pressed together for him not to be up to no good, “I want to hear the aria.”

Enjolras and Grantaire caught eyes before their gazes skittered off to _anything_ else. “The aria?” Enjolras squinted.

“It’s alright, I love the aria,” Grantaire smiled easily. He cleared his throat and got into character, as Enjolras danced his hands over the keys.

The words Enjolras had written, all drenched in longing, echoed from Grantaire’s lips, almost taunting. He gave a narrow eyed stare to a smirking Combeferre as Grantaire’s head fell back, each note a promise of something yet to come, each breath a fraction of a sigh. He rolled his shoulders and tried to focus on his playing as Grantaire’s voice dipped low and velvety, teasing of stretches of skin and the sweetness of lips. The aria felt longer than it had ever been before, and Enjolras heard his blood rushing past his ears, at the end.

“Fun,” he said dryly, “Grantaire, you’re sounding lovely.”

“Enjolras, you were a bit off time,” Combeferre said, eyes glimmering, “Bit too heavy handed with the rubato…” Enjolras scowled, _of course_ the rubato was too much… he hadn’t managed to extricate his piece from the cavities in Grantaire’s chest, and had worked to Grantaire’s pulse instead of his internal metronome.

“Okay, again,” Enjolras rapped on the piano top, breathing deeply and finally settling into his skin, focusing on nothing but the sheet music and the way he played it. The fizzling champagne sensation dampened at the back of his mind, and the music ensnared his senses so deeply that he almost forgot Grantaire stood beside him. _Almost _.__

Afternoon swung into evening, and Grantaire’s voice crackled, with a lack of water, making them all sit back and question how many hours had passed. Grantaire rifled through his growing pile of sheet music, stacking it neatly enough to signify an end.

“I’d better head off soon,” he said, sure enough. “The rehearsal on Monday is at school, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, room 209A,” Combeferre ripped a sheet out of his folder and handed it to Grantaire, “I wrote up a rehearsal schedule, if you want a copy.”

“Wow,” Grantaire laughed, “Very efficient.”

“Well, time is running out, isn’t it?” Combeferre nodded firmly at Enjolras, “We’re going to work on your duet with Ariadne now, so be ready to pick it up with Cosette.”

“How is she at picking things up?” Enjolras asked, neatening his work as well.

“Cosette’s a delightfully quick learner. And the least Prima Donna-esque Prima Donna you’ll ever work with. She’s wonderful,” Grantaire beamed.

“I’m looking forward to working with her,” Combeferre said, rolling his empty mug between his hands. “Alright, Enj… Shall we meet back in ten minutes to write this epic duet we’re teaching our actors in two days? I’m getting a tea.” He hugged Grantaire tightly, “See you Monday!”

“Later, ‘Ferre.” Grantaire swept his eyes to Enjolras the moment they were alone. “Wow,” he said, rubbing a hand against his jaw, which Enjolras now knew was very soft and electrifyingly sensitive. “Bit of a day.”

“Bit of a day,” Enjolras agreed. “A lot of a day.”

“How are you feeling?”

Enjolras couldn’t speak for a moment, disbelief that Grantaire could be expecting anything less than overwhelming joy. “Wonderful.” As soon as the word slipped from his lips, he suddenly froze. What if Grantaire hadn’t found it as wonderful as Enjolras had? They had not had a chance to discuss a thing, and maybe Grantaire had been cringing his way through the rehearsal - ready to hang up his Dionysian laurel and quit the opera forever. “And you?” he asked, “How was it for you?”

Grantaire gave him a tired squint. “Really?” he folded his arms, “I thought I made it _pretty clear_ , Enjolras.” A laugh bloomed from his lips, soft and sunshine-filled. “Your virtuosity transcends just music.”

“Okay, good. Wonderful,” Enjolras smiled.

“Wonderful for me, yes,” Grantaire stepped closer until their chests were flush against one another, “So thank you.”

Enjolras felt a jolt in his lower stomach, with Grantaire’s eyes so near and so full of heat. “I…” he faltered, “I’m glad. We’re on the same page.”

“Reading from the same sheet music, it could be said,” Grantaire’s voice was a wisp of delicious smoke.

“Can we…?” Enjolras didn’t want to finish the sentence.

“I certainly hope so,” Grantaire grinned, “If your question was: can we do this again?”

“It was.”

“You know me, Enjolras. I’m not one to turn down any form of hedonism… any time you want.”

“ _Any_ time?”

“As long as it doesn’t infringe on rehearsal times. I really like ‘Ferre, but I’m a little bit terrified of him.” Grantaire laughed and kissed Enjolras, sweet and aching and over all too quickly. “Better be off… like I said,” he gestured to the kitchen, “ _Terrified_.”

Enjolras leant down, his hair falling over Grantaire’s eyes. “Until next time, then,” he curled a finger around Grantaire’s chin and tilted him into the perfect position, lips meeting once more.

“Until next time,” Grantaire had a lovely golden glow, he gave a grazing wink and disappeared from the corridor, his green silken shirt tailing around a corner.

 

From the instant the door clicked into place, both Combeferre and Courfeyrac jumped into the living room, staring at Enjolras like he held state secrets.

“Enjolras!” Courfeyrac whooped, “I’m so proud of you!”

“We’re both overjoyed,” Combeferre grinned, “We both made a bet that this was going to happen, we both won, but no-one betted against it… so we’re no better off… but it sounds like you are!”

“Of course you did,” Enjolras laid on the sofa, “It’s just sex… it isn’t a big deal.”

“Oh…” Courfeyrac swooned, “Did Grantaire kiss those words right into your mouth?”

“I don’t bother you two this much about your sex life,” Enjolras said, trying to hide his smile.

“But this is _Grantaire _,__ ” Combeferre said, at the same time as Courfeyrac snorted.

“We _noticed_ you don’t pay attention, babe,” Courfeyrac squeezed Enjolras’ shoulder, “But that’s just who you are. I don’t think you’d even realise if ‘Ferre and I were sleeping together.”

“I’d definitely realise,” Enjolras argued, misreading Combeferre’s slanted brow, “I would!”

“Sure, darling,” Courfeyrac dropped his head onto Enjolras’ lap, “So… how was it?”

_How was it?_

Enjolras didn’t know how to put it into words.

“Oh, Courf,” he sighed.

“Good sigh or bad sigh?” Combeferre asked.

“Like he was the Dionysian wild God you were hoping for, and he ravished you for hours sort of sigh, or he kissed like a washing-machine sort of sigh?”

“Do you think those lips are capable of kissing like a washing machine?” Combeferre sniffed, “No way.”

“Yeah,” Enjolras said, “No way.”

“Good sigh, good sigh, good sigh!” Courfeyrac sang, creating an absurd dance move with his arms.

“Great sigh,” Enjolras sighed again, “Oh, I feel so light.”

“Better than that cellist you dated last year?”

Enjolras laughed, “God, that feels like a lifetime ago. Better. Way better…” he paused, “The best.”

Courfeyrac punched the air. “I _knew it!”_ he squeezed Enjolras’ arm, “I _knew_ Jehan was underselling Grantaire… They were all like…” Courfeyrac arranged his face into a pretty good impression of Jehan’s heavy-lidded eyes and lazy smile, “ _R is fun… He’s great for midnights and high sex… but he’s such a tease, and he talks too much, and he takes ages… sometimes that’s just not the vibe…”_

 _ _“__ Ahh,” Enjolras groaned, wondering what Grantaire’s review of him would be.

“Don’t overthink things, Enjolras,” Combeferre commanded, “All that matters is that you both had a nice time and that you were safe.”

“Of course _Enjolras_ was safe,” Courfeyrac rolled his eyes, “It’s _Enjolras _.__ We stan a safe-sex king.” Courfeyrac ruffled Enjolras’ hair, “Do you want to talk details, or is that overstepping the mark a bit?”

Courfeyrac loved to fill the apartment with intense details on his love life, recounting his exploits like fables, often with impressions and stars in his eyes. He looked up at Enjolras, praying for a morsel of gossip.

“It was like a _symphony_ ,” Enjolras smiled.

Both Combeferre and Courfeyrac grumbled.

“Of course it was,” Combeferre laughed.

“It was!” Enjolras said, “Seriously… it made me feel like I was listening to an insanely angelic orchestra or something... it was like everything  I love about music, but I could feel it.” He covered his cheeks with his hands and let out a sound that could only be described as a squeal.

“Alright, wow,” Courfeyrac scrunched his nose, “Are you performing at Jehan’s next poetry slam?”

“It was better than sex,” Enjolras couldn’t stop sighing like an over-dramatic heroine from a silent movie.

“Was it worth it?”

“Worth what?” Enjolras asked, trying not to laugh as his two friends crossed their arms in eerie synchronisation.

“Worth creating an entire opera for?”

“So worth it,” Enjolras beamed, “Best decision of my life. I might tell him we’re writing another one for him…”

“ _No!”_ Combeferre gaped, punching Enjolras lightly on the shoulder. “One opera is all I will stand for. You’re never roping me into your romantic schemings ever again.”

“I’m in,” Courfeyrac grinned, his mouth sliding into a gasp, “I can see it now! The worlds first explicit opera… An operatic strip tease… Oh… my… god.”

“I don’t know about that,” Combeferre nudged Enjolras in the side, “He was getting all flustered by Grantaire just _singing_ about metaphor-filled orgasms.”

Courfeyrac glowed with excitement, “That is adorable. Oh, Enj… That aria _is_ steamy.”

“Very steamy,” Combeferre agreed.

Enjolras pushed both of them away, slightly resenting the new giggly version of himself. “Shut up, guys,” he laughed, feeling pink and exposed.

“Yeah… we’d better get on with writing,” Combeferre said, grabbing one of the many pens tucked behind his ear.

“Aren’t you writing the sex scene?” Courfeyrac had not stopped smiling for the whole conversation, but somehow his feral grin grew wider.

“Yeah, it will be easy… Enj is writing from experience.”

“Great experience,” Enjolras concurred, “And with a promise for more.”

Courf tilted his head. “Are you cool with it being casual? Honestly?”

“Honestly?” Enjolras let his eyes fall shut, “I’m cool with absolutely anything that makes me feel that good.” He considered it again. “And the mystery is hot… I think it would be different if we were dating or something… it’s exciting like this… Very Dionysian.”

“Ahh,” Courfeyrac clung onto Enjolras’ neck, “I’m going to leave you both to write… but __l_ ook at you, Enjolras! _I’m like a proud mother hen! You’re having _banging_ casual sex… You’re all grown up!” Then he winced. “I mean… you described it as a __‘_ symphony _,’…__ which is a bit basic white girl 101… but we’re on our way.”

“Alright,” Combeferre said, catching sight of the clock. “Today has had quite _enough_ distraction for Enjolras, so please unhook yourself from his neck, Courf. Let’s write.”

“Let’s write.” Enjolras grinned at Combeferre, tried with all his might to be the Singular-Minded-and-Immensely-Focused-Composer he knew he should be, and so they wrote until morning seeped through the windows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope ya enjoyed! let me know what you think! I know I said this a while ago (lol this is spiralling longer and longer with every chapter!) but we're in sight of the end now! 
> 
> would love to know your thoughts, every comment makes me feel ALIVE (and that's worth a lot!) ((yeah that's a hadestown reference SORRY!))


	16. Rehearsal

Enjolras had never fallen asleep in class, but in Valjean’s 9 a.m. Monday class, he was dangerously close. Valjean was explaining the intricacies of the grading system, listing modules and sources to help with research - and though usually Enjolras would have been hanging off every word, his eyelids could not prise open. He struggled to remember the last time he had slept through the night. His last scrap of sleep had been an hour or two in Grantaire’s arms a few days before. Since Grantaire had left the rehearsal, Enjolras had written, barely breaking to eat or leave the house.

“Enjolras,” Valjean said as the hour drew close. Enjolras jolted in his seat, eyelids wrenched as open as he could pull them.

“Yes, sir?” he asked, terrified of an upcoming reprimand.

Valjean pulled up a chair to Enjolras’ desk and waited for the last few stragglers to exit the classroom. “I heard back from the board today… about the funding…”

A jolt of adrenaline surged under Enjolras’ skin, officially waking him up. “And?”

“Great news,” Valjean smiled and clapped his hands together, “They’re willing to fund a percentage of the opera… You know what bureaucratic nightmares the board can get itself tied up in, but with all the concerts you’ve conducted, and with all the work you’ve done for the board, it was an easy decision for them.”

“Really?” Enjolras pushed a hand against his skipping heart, “ _ _Seriously?__ ”

“You also had a pretty wonderful reference written by yours truly,” Valjean spread his arms and gave a paternal squeeze to Enjolras’ arm.

After a moment of basking in the afterglow, Enjolras asked the important question. “How much?”

A couple of hundred euros would pay for materials for Musichetta’s costumes. It was unlikely €500 could ever be squeezed from the board’s tight fists, but it would allow for custom set pieces, and could let Enjolras afford a round of drinks for everyone who was putting up with his hare-brained opera scheme.

“Five thousand,” Valjean said, as simply as if he were commenting on the weather.

Enjolras crumbled from the inside out. “W-what?” he gaped, not allowing himself to believe it.

“They’re funding the opera with five thousand Euro.”

Enjolras did not know how to respond. His fingers shook, his heart was painfully fast, and no words fell to his lips. Instead he just dropped his head and began to cry.

“Oh my God,” he said, trying to steady his voice and scrub his face clean, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I’m crying.”

“It’s a lot to take in,” Valjean said kindly.

He snuffled ungracefully, “I’m __so__ sorry. It’s been a long week,” Enjolras tried to explain.

“Are you alright, Enjolras?”

“More than alright,” Enjolras bawled, “Now I can pay the designers and the orchestra what they deserve… They were all going to do it for free, but now they don’t have to.” No matter how he tried, the tears fell even faster. “How have I been so lucky?”

“It isn’t luck, my boy. What kind of establishment would we be if we took your money for three years and didn’t give you the opportunities you deserve?” Valjean extracted a tissue from his double bass case, and curled it into Enjolras’ fist. “We’re putting our trust into you, because we know you can live up to it.”

Enjolras scuffed his cheeks with the tissue. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. That’s what the board is for. You better be on your way, though. We can’t have you getting a late mark, or they might just retract the funding from you.”

Enjolras bounced to his feet, blinking tears from his golden lashes. “Thank you so much, sir.” His voice held enough gravitas to draw a city to its knees. “I won’t let you down.”

“Good chap,” Valjean nodded and watched as Enjolras surged from the room, a newly lit fuse under his ribcage.

 

He floated through the rest of the morning, delirious from the news and lack of sleep. Jehan gave him a knowing look during a music business lecture.

“R told me,” they said, mistaking Enjolras’ haze for something it was not.

“Huh?” Enjolras wondered how Grantaire had found out about the funding, and then realised what Jehan was talking about. “Oh…” He bit his lips closed but the words could not be restrained. “What did he say?”

“Not much, really,” Jehan said.

Enjolras flinched.

Jehan continued to doodle an elaborate border around their work, “R doesn’t tend to gossip a lot… I tried to get him to talk about it, but he can be annoyingly elusive.”

“Hmm…” Enjolras said, noncommittal. He scribbled down a note from the slideshow about Spotify plays and radio exposure. “Are you coming to rehearsal tonight?”

Jehan gave him a long look. “Enjolras, my darling. Do I __ever__ miss your rehearsals?” They laughed, “I would not want to face your wrath.”

“I’m glad that’s my legacy,” Enjolras said drily, trying to half-listen to the lecturer.

“Are we working on the opera?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras muttered, “I’ve got a big announcement…”

Jehan began to speak, but the lecturer silenced them both with a sharp stare. Enjolras clenched his fingers together, fizzing with the rush of words unsaid.

 

After the class drew to a close, Enjolras could hold it in no longer and sprinted off to the fourth floor, ambushing an unsuspecting Joly as he trudged from a practice room.

“Joly!” he grabbed Joly by the arm and ducked into an empty room. “I couldn’t keep it to myself any longer!”

“Hello to you too,” Joly scrunched his eyes closed, “What’s wrong?”

“Okay, this is top secret for now… but you’re my first violinist, so you should be first to know…” Enjolras said with a slightly guilty smile. “We secured funding from the board!”

Joly slapped a hand to his mouth and looked at Enjolras with glittering eyes. “No way!” he beamed and wiggled in a dance of pure joy. “I’ve never got funding for any of my projects! How much?”

“Way more than expected…” Enjolras pushed his hair out of his eyes, pink from smiling so widely. “Five __thousand!”__

A long, high-pitch shriek fell from Joly’s lips and his jigging became a full on choreographed dance. “No… __way!”__ He grabbed one of Enjolras’ hands and together they jumped up and down until the fervour in their chests quietened.

“Crikey!” Joly peeped, “We’re going to have the most amazing final project!”

“The __most__ amazing!” Enjolras echoed, beaming a liquidated sunshine smile.

“I have to tell Chetta and Bossuet! They’re gonna be over the moon! They’ve been talking about their sketches non-stop.” Joly practically began to hover, reaching for his phone, “This is amazing, Enjolras…. __Incredible.__ Wow…” he wandered to the door, slightly dazed. “Wow… I’ll see you at rehearsal later… __Wow!”__

 

~*~

For the rest of the afternoon, Enjolras drifted from classroom to classroom, hardly able to focus on anything his lecturers were saying. His fingers skittered over the desks, the melodies of his opera playing in his ears.

The sight of Combeferre and Grantaire lounging in a practice room, laughing, hunched over the piano, sent stars to the forefront of his mind.

“Guys,” he said, pushing through the door. Their eyes turned to him, Combeferre’s dark and quizzical, Grantaire’s so distracting that Enjolras nearly forgot what he was meant to say. “We got funding!” he gasped before either could say a word.

“Funding?” Combeferre perked in his seat, fingers curling around his notes, “How much?”

“Five thousand!”

“Shut up,” Combeferre said, standing, his voice hoarse, “No way.”

Grantaire laughed and ran a hand through his hair, “Of course you did, Enj… You’re the golden boy of Saint-Michel.”

“ _ _No way,”__ Combeferre repeated, “Absolutely __no way.__ ”

“Yes way,” Enjolras beamed, “We’re going professional.” His heart flickered, flame-like, under his breastbone. “I need to figure out the best way to split it, but… I’m really happy to say that I’ll be able to pay you both something for your involvement. Obviously, if we get profits from the performances there will be a profit share, but I’m going to find a way to split this funding between everyone.”

Combeferre turned slightly red, averting his eyes. “No, Enj, you don’t need to do that. Save it for costumes and stuff… I don’t need it…”

Enjolras’ eyebrows arched across his brow. “No, ‘Ferre. It really is the least you deserve,” he paused and looked at Grantaire, “The least you both deserve.”

A silence pulsed, before Grantaire laughed easily and said, “Well, you can’t argue with that…” and the moment passed.

After a few moments around the piano, Grantaire warming up to Combeferre’s playing, there was a knock at the glass door. As they peered around, Cosette waved through the door, her cheeks rosy as if she had been running.

“Hi guys,” she said sweetly, kissing both Combeferre and Enjolras’ cheeks before squeezing Grantaire tightly. “So lovely to see you!”

“Here she is!” Grantaire grinned.

“Hi, Cosette,” Enjolras tucked a lock of hair behind his ear and tried not to analyse the space between Grantaire and Cosette too fiercely.

“Perfect timing,” Combeferre said, “Did you get my email?”

“Yep,” Cosette beamed, eyes sparkling so much that it looked artificial. Enjolras forced himself to stop looking. “I’ve learnt my parts…”

“You’ve learned them all already?” Enjolras asked, peering from the top of his sheet music, “For everything we’ve sent you?”

“Yeah,” Cosette smiled even wider, “Ariadne is completely lovely,” she gave a soft, fluttery sigh, “Our duet is going to be so wonderful. You’ve captured the perfect mix of sweetness and wildness… it’s divine.”

A warm rush clouded Enjolras’ mind. “Thank you… that really means a lot.”

“I’m sure there’s a couple of pronunciation issues, but R is always good at keeping me in check, right?” she nudged into Grantaire’s shoulder, and the pair laughed, curled around one another like speech marks.

“I’m a very firm teacher,” Grantaire remarked, shooting a tiny wink to Enjolras.

As Enjolras’ brain scrambled for a response, Combeferre clapped his hands together. “Alright, Cosette… have you warmed up, or should we do some scales?”

“I just had a vocal lesson,” Cosette smiled, flicking through her neat folder of sheet music. “I’m good to start, if you are.”

“Grantaire?” Combeferre asked, smiling at Grantaire’s nod, and spreading his hands over the keys. “Enjolras, you observe and take notes for now, and we can swap in a bit.”

Enjolras’ heart pulsed in his ears at the opening notes, as sweet and rich as chocolate. Cosette began to sing, breath even in her chest, a gentle expression contouring the edges of her eyes and lips, the music poured from her like an instinct. In the confines of the small rehearsal room, Cosette disappeared, and Ariadne soared, her voice honeyed and enticing, while still delicately mortal.

She leant to Grantaire, lifted her small palm and slotted it into his. As though in a relay race, Cosette exhaled, Grantaire inhaled, and plucked the song out of her chest. He sang, his eyes never leaving hers, each movement felt like an earthquake. From the vibrato of a keening note, to the drawing together of their bodies, Enjolras lost sight of the two singers, and the song, and the notes he was meant to be keeping. Dionysus and Ariadne breathed life into one another.

As the final notes played, the illusion shattered as quickly as it had began. Cosette laughed, Grantaire teased her lightly for some pronunciation, and Combeferre and Enjolras shared a glance. What had started as a fantasy was turning out to be something greater than either of them could imagine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holllaaaa here's a smidge of plot after the last few chapters being exclusively e+r MAKING OUT hope youuuu enjoy!! let me know all your thoughts!


	17. Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras's fire has been blazing so brightly, that it is no surprise he burns out. Grantaire tries to rekindle him.

“Enjolras?”

Enjolras turned his gaze to the practice room doorway. Valjean stood, a sympathetic look on his face, and a pile of folders under his arm.

“Sorry to interrupt… Can I have a quick word?”

“Of course,” Enjolras looked back to his orchestra, who were watching with wide, scandalised eyes. “Guys, just have a run through the duet. Courf, could you conduct?”

Courfeyrac took Enjolras’ place as he followed Valjean. At once, all the worst case possibilities flew through his mind.

“Is everything alright?”

“Oh yes,” Valjean said steadily, “I’ve just had an email from the Board. They wanted you to look through some scholarship applications… I said you were very busy, but they were really quite insistent.”

Enjolras’ eyes dropped to the stack of papers in Valjean’s grip. “That’s no problem at all,” he managed to say, “I’ll have a look through them tonight. When will the auditions be?”

“Next week, I’m afraid. Will you have enough time to be there… we could get someone to cover for you if your schedule is too full.”

“It’s fine, honestly,” Enjolras heaved the stack of papers into his arms. “I’ll pick my top fifty choices and let you know by tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Enjolras.” Valjean patted his arm, “I always know we can rely on you…” he pointed to the orchestra room with a smile, “From what I heard, the opera is sounding great.”

“Thanks, sir,” Enjolras said weakly, “I’d better get back on with it. The orchestra are quick learners, but we haven’t got much time.”

“Have a good evening.”

“You too.” Enjolras shouldered back into the practice room, dumping the applications by his belongings. “Alright, guys!” he clapped, “Thank you, Courfeyrac. Let’s run it from the top, with some more dynamics please! This is a great love story moment, we need the sweeping, building emotion to come across in the instrumentation. It comes with practice, but inject a bit of passion into it.”

As he lifted his arms, a bone weary tiredness seeped under his skin, but all he could do was brush it away and fall into conducting as though falling off a cliff.

 

~*~

After orchestra rehearsals ended, he dashed to the metro, cursing his forgotten scarf against the biting cold wind. He faced the cursory glares that Parisians gave him as he bustled onto the packed train, with his cello on his back, violin in hand and a folder the size of a young child under his arm.

Unlike him, he was running late for arriving early, so sprinted up the winding streets towards the converted church where he taught. He laid the table with fruit to be ignored, and cakes to be inhaled, tied up his hair, and readied himself for the chaos that an onslaught of children under twelve were sure to bring.

With the room alive with laughter and terrible playing, Enjolras had no time to allow the growing surge of stress behind his eyeballs to overtake him.

At home, he sorted through the piles of scholarship applications, staring into the glossy eyes of the headshots, feeling a surge of guilt with each face that joined the ‘no’ pile. After an hour of decisions, his ‘yes’ pile was still enormous, filled with enormous achievements and devastating stories of broken families and poverty. All of a sudden, he breathed out, and couldn’t find any oxygen to breathe in. A scalding hot gasp caught at the back of his throat. He stumbled backwards, papers flying around him, light-headed. Still struggling to breathe, he poured a glass of water and choked it back, feeling a burning behind his eyes.

Head in his hands, he inhaled slowly, focusing on the swell of his lungs and the sweetness of his exhale.

Fingers shaking, he returned to his work, slicing the pile in half without looking and felt guilt swell in his throat like bile, as he blindly put half on the ‘yes,’ pile, and half on the ‘no.’ He numbly collapsed onto the piano seat, relief crushing down against his shoulders as he began to play. Finally, his eyes fell shut and the music curled around the anxieties swirling inside, pulling and tempting them out into rich, discordant chords, where they rung through the room instead of inside his chest.

The evening came and went, and when Enjolras finally looked up from his narrow view of the piano, he had composed three new pieces for the opera. A shaky breath coughed from his lungs, a little confused, a little amazed. He reached for his phone, noting that it was one in the morning.

The phone blinked with a text.

_‘hey,’ it read. ‘congrats for the opera funding… want to come over to celebrate?’_

_Grantaire._

It had been sent over three hours ago, but Enjolras reckoned Grantaire wasn’t the sort for early nights.

 _‘Are you still awake?’_ he replied. In the mirror, he fingered the violet circles under his eyes, tried to scramble his hair into a semblance of cultivated messiness.

_‘yeah I stayed up past my bedtime, don’t tell anyone…’_

Enjolras shrugged on a scarf and made to the door.

“I’m off out, guys. See you soon!” Enjolras called.

Courf peeked around the door and winked.“See you later, gorgeous.”

“Bye, Enj!” Combeferre hollered from his room.

Enjolras slipped into the night sky, suddenly exhausted, the moonlight so bright it made his eyes ache.

 

~*~

“Enjolras, darling!” Éponine bustled him into the hallway, hugging him tightly, soft under his arms.

“How’s it going?” Enjolras followed where she led, leaving his scarf on the bannister.

“Delightfully. We’re just chilling in the lounge… R wasn’t expecting you. He said you were crazy busy…”

“Yeah, you know how it is,” Enjolras huffed, “Third year.”

“Drink?”

“I’m fine with water, thanks.”

Éponine squeezed his arm with a curving smile. “You’re so sweet… so principled.”

Enjolras snorted and they joined the ragtag bunch on the floor of the Patron-Minette house. Jehan and Montparnasse were arguing animatedly over something to do with rhyme-schemes.

“Jehan. You’re just being extra,” Montparnasse teased. “Sometimes rhyming couplets just work.”

“ _Extra?”_ Jehan gaped, pushing a hand against their throat, “ _Extra!_ Well, I never! It’s called being a poet, you heathen.” They pushed themselves into a more seated position, “If I have a moral opposition to rhyming couplets, that is __my__ prerogative.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire said, looking up and smiling, his eyes sparking bright. “Rhyming couplets?”

“I don’t think I have much of an opinion. Listen to the poet.”

“Thank you, Enjolras!” Jehan cawed, “Yeah, _listen to the poet _.__  Enjolras is a man of great sense!”

Enjolras tilted his head, Grantaire traced the movement with his eyes and stood. “Hey, I have some of your sheet music… come on.” He stepped over the small party and nudged Enjolras towards his room. Enjolras knew the excuse was as flimsy as cotton, but no-one seemed overly interested in their departure.

 

Enjolras wanted nothing more than to fall into unthinking bliss, feel Grantaire’s hands on his skin, feel his lips, which was why disappointment swept through him when Grantaire’s forehead contorted.

“What’s wrong?” Grantaire said immediately, clicking his door shut, and sitting Enjolras on the edge of his bed.

“Not much,” Enjolras brushed the comment aside, squirmed out of his jacket.. “It’s hot in here,” he said, pulling at his shirt. “Are we a touch overdressed?”

“I always feel overdressed, if I’m wearing anything at all,” Grantaire smiled, running a hand across Enjolras’ cheek. Enjolras felt his eyelids flutter shut, felt electricity spark inside his jaw. “Seriously, though… are you alright?”

At Enjolras’ silence, Grantaire drew back and guided Enjolras’ chin gently, forcing their eyes to meet. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I swear,” Enjolras averted his eyes, “I’m just… just tired.”

“You should have told me to stop texting you,” he frowned again, “Hey,” he said softly, “Take my bed and just sleep for a few hours. I’ll get the others to shut up.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras crossed his arms, “I obviously did not come here to steal your bed and ruin everyone’s party.”

“And I obviously did not invite you knowing you were in this state.” He pushed Enjolras’ hair from his eyes, “You don’t need to force yourself to struggle to make good art.”

Feeling thoroughly called out, Enjolras tried to justify himself. “That isn’t what I’m doing - I… I’m just tired. But not too tired to be here, with you.”

“Not to get to hippie on you… but your energy is not looking great right now.”

Enjolras leant across Grantaire’s pillow, letting his eyelashes drop so he could peer through them, and allowing his lips to fall open. A jolt of satisfaction rushed through him when Grantaire’s eyes dropped to his mouth.

“Don’t use me as a coping mechanism, Enjolras,” Grantaire said wearily, turning Enjolras’ blood cold, “I’m not down unless this is equally fun for both of us… and it kind of feels like you’re on the verge of tears.”

“I’m not…” Enjolras gasped in protest, “I’m not about to cry.”

“You aren’t acting like someone who just got five thousand Euro to fund your opera. What’s been going on in the ten hours since I saw you last… you can be honest with me.”

And to Enjolras’ deepest dismay, he proved Grantaire right, as scalding tears pricked at the back of his eyes.

“Enjolras?” Grantaire reached out and buried Enjolras’ neck in his shoulder, left hand running through his golden curls, and the right cradled firmly against the width of Enjolras’ back.

“Oh my God,” Enjolras peeped, “This is inhumanely embarrassing. I cried in front of Valjean the other day. There’s something wrong with me.”

“Oh, darling,” Grantaire whispered against his hair, the term of endearment as sweet as honey. “It’s a difficult time. It’s human to feel like this.” His hands were warm and stabilising.

“I’m sorry, this is so embarrassing,” Enjolras said, desperately trying to scrub his face dry.

“Enj,  chill out. It’s just crying. If you think crying is embarrassing, you’d better never watch me watching a sad film, or listening to insanely good music, or like spilling a coffee, or something…” He huffed out of his nose and pulled away, eyeing Enjolras. “Can I help you with anything?”

Enjolras sniffed a laugh. “No… It’s all stuff that I have to do by myself. I’m an idiot for taking on this workload, though.”

“Alright,” Grantaire said, “Stop moping. You’re not an idiot - you’re a very ambitious soul. You’re a Leo…”

It was enough to stop the stinging in his eyes. Enjolras scrunched up his face. “You don’t believe that garbage, do you?”

Grantaire laughed, throwing his head back, exposing the golden column of his throat. “Nah,” he grinned, “Just testing the waters.” He stood and retreated to the other side of the room, his eyes still hazy and soft on Enjolras. With his long fingers, he drew a vinyl record from his shelf, unsheathed it from its cover, placed it on his record player, and laid the needle on a groove. With a click, the crackled, warm music poured into the room like whiskey. It was jazzy and slow, a creaky piano crunching in the background, behind bold, coppery brass and silken strings. “Dance with me, Enjolras,” he said, reaching out his hands, already swaying in time to the music.

“I…” Enjolras dipped his gaze, “I’m not much of a dancer.”

“Come on,” Grantaire tilted his head, linked his fingers into Enjolras’, and Enjolras needed no more persuasion. Their fingers fell into one another’s in the same way the night sky cradled the moon. Enjolras sighed as Grantaire’s head connected with his chest.

They swayed. Enjolras may not have been much of a dancer, but his conducting tendencies made his timing impeccable. They moved to the beat like it was written for them.

“This is wonderful,” Grantaire said, quiet the words brushed against Enjolras’ skin.

“It is,” Enjolras agreed, “Is it Miles Davis?”

Grantaire looked up into his eyes, squinting slightly, a smile forming on his lips. “Oh… the music? Yes, I suppose _that’s_ wonderful too.”

A light pink blossomed across the bridge of Enjolras’ nose. “You have good taste,” Enjolras’ voice dropped low and velveteen.

Grantaire laughed again and pressed closer. “Oh…In music?” His hands curled to the small of Enjolras’ back, “Luckily my good taste expands beyond music.”

“Luckily for me?”

“Luckily for us both,” Grantaire’s fingers traced the curve of his spine. “Feeling a bit better?”

“Thank you, Grantaire,” Enjolras said, feeling strangely formal.

“This is the best bit,” Grantaire said, gesturing to the record. He nestled against Enjolras’ chest again and they continued to dance.

By the time the needle clacked against the empty space between music and silence, the track over, Enjolras was coiled on the right hand side of Grantaire’s bed, eyes shut and breathing even. Grantaire lifted the needle and turned his machine off, numbed by the quiet. In the other room, a ricochet of laughter blasted off the walls.

Grantaire dimmed his lights, leaving Enjolras illuminated in the softest sunshiney glow of his side lamps. Grantaire slunk out of his jeans and under the covers, the warmth of Enjolras beside him like an electric fire.

It was rare that Grantaire saw him so at ease, with no tension coiled inside his brow, no frown pulling at his forehead, or anxiety tugging at his lip. He looked like a painting, but Grantaire worried that he wouldn’t be able to capture Enjolras’ polarity of softness and severity. He left the smallest of kisses against Enjolras’ shoulder, smiling as he shifted in his sleep.

Grantaire’s last, fleeting thought, before he dipped into slumber, was a half-hearted, silent, ‘ _oh no…’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for readin! Let me know all your thoughts! comments make my day (seriously!)  
> This keeps getting longer and longer but I'm so obsessed with my soft lovely music boys!


	18. Free Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A cosy morning chat on Grantaire's windowsill, is precisely the thing Enjolras needs amidst the flurry of third-year life. They remove the time signature, change the tempo, and play in free time.

Grantaire was gone when Enjolras woke.

He blearily registered where he was, still tucked into Grantaire’s covers, restrained in his shirt and jeans. He grumbled slightly and stretched out, wriggling out of his discomfort. His eyes fell on a still-steaming mug of green tea, with a hand-scrawled ‘for you -r.’

Enjolras curled his hands around the lukewarm glow of the tea, relishing the warm path it traced down his throat. He ventured into Grantaire’s small garden, not unsurprised to see Grantaire coiled in a seated position, cigarette dripping from his fingers. He gazed off into the neighbouring fence, brow contorted.

“Thanks for the tea,” Enjolras said. Grantaire started, eyes jumping to Enjolras, mouth dropping open. Within a second, the expression passed, and he smoothed his features into a smile.

“Morning,” he stubbed out his unfinished cigarette. “I was just about to wake you. Can’t have you missing classes, can we?”

Enjolras felt the quiet that draped over them, and scrambled for something to say to fill the silence.

“I’m… I’m sorry about last night.” He tugged on his hair, wondering what Grantaire saw stood before him, “It can’t have been what you imagined when you were hoping to celebrate.”

“Enjolras, if you apologise one more time for crying I’m going to quit the opera.” Grantaire yawned. “I don’t know what kind of BS masculinity code you’re following, but it’s kind of lame.”

“I… Um…” Enjolras faltered.

“I don’t know how you have it in you to write such emotive, beautiful music, and still feel guilty about crying…” he gave a wry sort of smile, “You can let it out in other ways than just music. Anyway… I had a lovely time last night. Sometimes all you need to do is dance to jazz.”

 

Enjolras braved the step towards Grantaire and sat beside him, letting out a sigh.

“I don’t know what sort of lovers you’ve had before,” Grantaire said lightly, “But trust me, I’m chill with just hanging out - no expectations.  If you’re busy, and stressed, and you just want somewhere to crash, watch trashy movies and not think about music for a while… That place is here. And if you __do__ wanna think about music, and play together, or listen together, or whatever. That place is also here.” 

“I’m not very good at talking about emotions and stuff,” Enjolras tried to say. “I understand music better than my own feelings, sometimes.” He laughed wryly. “Anyway… thank you. I really mean that.”

“Who _is_ good at talking about emotions and stuff? I’m certainly not,” Grantaire inched closer, until they were arm to arm. “God knows I’ve indulged in a little too much hedonism to escape things… but we’re human. We can be bad at it together.”

 _Oh no,_ thought Enjolras, his heart clenching in his chest, _oh no, oh no, oh no._

“I think I’ve got to go,” he said abruptly, “I have to pick up some stuff from my place.”

“Do you want to borrow a clean shirt?” Grantaire stood, linking their fingers, and leading Enjolras inside.

“A wooing shirt?”

Grantaire pulled open his wardrobe, to reveal carefully stored shirts, in bold gemstone colours and vibrant patterns.

“What else?” he said, pulling out a scarlet shirt. “Red is definitely your colour.” He held it up to Enjolras with an appraising eye. “Keep it if you want… It’s just one of my painting shirts.”

Enjolras slipped it on. It was a different cut to the shirts he usually wore, a lower neckline, baggier sleeves - both for dramatic flair, and because Grantaire’s arms were more muscled than his own. It felt alien and significant against his skin. A fleck of golden paint smeared up the side of his torso.

“I’m sorry, it’s a bit of a mess, isn’t it?” Grantaire said, a fingernail scratching at the golden paint.

“It’s fine. I like it. It’s original.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras smiled, his pulse dancing sporadically. “Thank you, Grantaire.”

“My pleasure,” Grantaire tiptoed to kiss Enjolras, his lips like a revelation. “You’d better go…” he said silkily, “See you at rehearsal. And Enjolras…”

“Yeah?”

“I… I want you to take care of yourself, okay? Don’t push yourself too hard. You have a whole lifetime to succeed.”

It was words like that, that made it hard for Enjolras to breathe. “I…” he felt his defences melt, “You really know how to say the things I ought to hear.”

Grantaire looked at him, a slight tilt to his head. The world was so quiet, they could almost hear one another’s heartbeats. Enjolras turned to leave - lightheaded with the intensity of what he was feeling.

“See you at rehearsal,” he said, wholly unaware that Grantaire felt the same.

 

~*~

His morning was wasted with a board meeting, arguing with the old white men that funded Saint-Michel. Enjolras tried to stop the pressure from avalanching through his skull, but each board member was stalwart on their scholarship choices. Enjolras put forward a few names, all debated heavily and largely ignored, before the sweet relief of a class excused him from the bloody arena of the board meeting.

Bureaucracy was far from his favourite thing.

In class, everyone played a snippet of their final pieces, but the room was heavy with something that had been absent in first and second year. Enjolras and Combeferre demonstrated an instrumental segment of their opera, Courfeyrac played a section of his flute sonata, Jehan pressed play on their experimental masterpiece, but even their usual elaborate explanation fell a little flat.

“It’s a setting of poetry to instruments that are usually not deemed as societally acceptable to be instruments,” Jehan said, dark patches under their eyes and donned in an outfit far less extravagant than usual.

At the end of the lesson, Enjolras gathered his friends at the door.

“Friends,” he said.

“Yeah, we’ve got orchestra practice…” Courfeyrac said, “We _know _.”__

“No, that’s not what I’m saying. I think we’ve all been hit by how intense this last stretch of uni is…” Enjolras looked from Combeferre’s weary expression, to Courf’s sleep deprived eyes.

“Amen,” Jehan said. “I’ve been so stressed that my house plants absorbed my bad energy and died.”

“Did you forget to water them?” Combeferre quirked an eyebrow.

“Go to hell, ‘Ferre.” Jehan sighed and shook their head, “It was the bad energy.”

“Yeah, it’s awful,” Enjolras said, “So let’s have a good old fashioned jam session, like we used to. Meet at the Musain, bring your instrument and anybody that wants to come. Let’s just play together to remember why we all play music, without thinking about the orchestra, or the opera, or the final projects at all. Just for fun.”

“Yes!” Courf said, immediately perking up, “That is such an Enj move. I’m hyped.”

“I’ll chat with the Musain, but be there Friday at seven, if you don’t hear anything else…” Enjolras heaved a sigh, glancing at his watch, “I’ve got to run to the rest of this board meeting, but see you later. Spread the word.”

“Aye, aye, Captain!” Courf gave a salute, and Enjolras dashed off to be bored to death again.

 

~*~

Enjolras was so lost in his onslaught of work and commitments, that by the time Friday rolled around, he had almost forgotten about his own plans.

He packed his lap harp into its bag, and dashed off to the Musain. He slipped into the darkened café, rushing through the familiar wooden hallways, past the bar, the bartender who gave a cheery wave, and into the brightened back room, already alive with chatter.

“Enj… I can’t believe our fearless leader is late! I’ve never seen this in all of my life!” Courfeyrac snuggled into his neck, squeezing tightly.

“I’m not late,” Enjolras bristled, hugging back, “And I’m not the leader, today. We’re all just playing together. There’s no hierarchy here.”

He looked around the room. Combeferre was squeezed onto the piano stool next to Cosette. Marius sat nearby, his bassoon on his lap. Jehan had brought an elaborate set of tabla drums, it looked like they had painted the design themselves. Joly was tangled between Bossuet and Musichetta, his violin still in its case, his partners holding an egg shaker and a tambourine. Bahorel, a third-year, who had seemed to be in his third-year for ten years, a man who had once played timpani for the orchestra, but had found his calling in chamber singing, had brought a small drum with him, and was beaming good-naturedly at whatever joke that fumbled out of Marius’ mouth.

In the other corner of the room, the Patron-Minette talked amongst themselves, not quite integrated with the Saint-Michel crowd. Éponine waved at Enjolras, a singing bowl tucked between her knees. Montparnasse had sourced an antique accordion that looked as though it weighed ten tons.

Enjolras sat beside Bossuet, Marius and Courfeyrac, tuning up the small lap harp in front of him. Grantaire stepped through the curtain a few moments later, his guitar strapped to his back. Marius straightened, eyes alight.

“Grantaire!” he shouted, a little too loudly. “Come and sit with us, Enjolras said himself that harp and guitar sound great together, so you should sit next to him.”

Enjolras wasn’t often a violent man, but the urge to shove Marius out of the window overtook him.

Grantaire looked at Marius before turning a questioning eye to Enjolras. “Doesn’t sound like something that Enjolras would say.”

“I didn’t,” Enjolras said, lips pursed.

“Details, details!” Marius said, flapping his hands, “Have you guys had much chance to speak together? I think you’d have more in common than you realised.”

Enjolras instantly regretted sitting anywhere in Marius’ vicinity.

“Yeah,” Grantaire said drily, a spark playing in his eyes, “We’re acquainted, a bit.”

“You should totally get to know each other more…” Marius nodded, eyes wide.

“Right guys,” Enjolras said, loud enough for the whole room to hear. “Thanks for coming today. There’s more of you than I expected.” He stood, looking across the mismatch of instruments and the assortment of faces behind them. “Basically, this is a chance to play together without thinking about grades, or orchestras, or auditions or gigs, or any of that stressful stuff. We’ll just play together without any interference. Let’s just see how it sounds… Try and make it sound a _bit_ tuneful, if you can.”

He sat down, picking out a simple riff on his harp. For a moment, only the reverberation of his harp strings sounded through the room. Then a soft strumming hopped quickly into the right key and soared in an unexpected but beautiful countermelody. Enjolras looked up, to notice Grantaire’s fingers arched over his guitar’s frets. Their eyes caught, and for a moment the world fell silent - still they played, but they became deaf to it all, blind to everything but each other.

Then Joly began to play a heart-wrenching tremolo, and one by one the room fell together, playing in disjointed harmony.

The folks living above the café probably didn’t hear it the way they did - resplendent and connected, rich and fulfilling. They probably just heard a bunch of students playing together - without a lot of attention to technicalities and technique - their laughter and their shucking of stress off their shoulders, louder than the music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hollaaa new chapter! 
> 
> honestly can't begin to say how grateful I feel for everyone that has read this far! every comment, kudos and read means the world to me! ((I actually sometimes cry with joy at comments, because I AM LAME!))) 
> 
> gooooshh I love these boys with all of my heart! hope you enjoy! let me know all your thoughts!


	19. Caesura

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The opera draws dangerously closer with every passing day. Enjolras finds it hard not to spend weeks lost in Grantaire's long, heavy glances.

To Enjolras, it felt like he had peered down to write for a moment, and six weeks had passed. His dissertation - on the importance of social music schemes - began to take shape, thousands of words blurring together on his laptop. His theory study was brushed over and revised. His business plan was miles longer than it ought to be, despite the fact he was not overly sure what he wanted to do after he graduated. The recordings of his classical harp and piano compositions were recorded and largely scored out. The damn opera finally had a structure, and sheet music, and mostly-coherent Italian - and Enjolras had sacrificed any semblance of a social life to achieve it - but he was almost content with it. He had attended multiple scholarship auditions, and fallen so head over heels for the voice of an aspiring opera singer, that he snuck behind the board’s back to invite the boy to sing for his Dionysian opera. The young man, red haired and tired-looking, with a glint to his eyes, made the perfect Pan - the God of the wild, and the goat-legged companion to the nymphs.

Feuilly sang with a mischievous gravelled tone, despite his lack of formal training. He often playfully would interrupt Enjolras, Combeferre, and occasionally even Grantaire, when their opera-talk became to lofty and pretentious.

“This is Dionysus’ crux, his turning point. With this song, it is his moment of metamorphosis into the Dionysus we see at the end of the play. His love has been turned to stone, and either he moves forward without her, or must travel into the Underworld to save her,” Enjolras explained during one rehearsal, “You’ll have to dig deep into his psyche to unweave his characterisation in plain sight for the audience.”

“I think what Enjolras is trying to say,” Feuilly interjected, giving Grantaire a blank stare, “Is that you’ve got to act. Bloody shocking, I know! An actor has to… act!”

Enjolras turned slightly pink. “Yes. I’m just saying, it’s an important moment,” he said, suitably chastised.

“Much simpler,” Feuilly said with a wink. Grantaire often laughed in these moments, eyes soft on Enjolras to soothe his bruised ego.

Enjolras’ past anxiety over bringing the wild-looking Grantaire before his orchestra, was increased tenfold when the time came for the brash, forward Feuilly to join a rehearsal.

Grantaire, Cosette and Feuilly spent plenty of time together, in private practice rooms. They practised so frequently, that Enjolras was almost used to hearing his songs echoing through the walls as he walked Saint-Michel’s corridors. They clicked together - Grantaire’s jagged edges against Feuilly’s unpolished demeanour against Cosette’s rosy warmth.

By the time Feuilly entered the orchestra rehearsal, Enjolras was sure that Grantaire had given the boy a strict briefing on Enjolras’ conducting role. That afternoon, Feuilly was nothing but smiles, and unopposed instructions.

 

Meetings with Bossuet had seemed to transpire from light-hearted discussions of colour schemes and stagings over coffee, to brief words exchanged as Bossuet traipsed through the hallways with enormous hunks of wood and metal. Musichetta was impossible to find without pins balanced in her lips, nipping in Cosette’s dress, working on Feuilly’s hooves, or mussing Grantaire’s hair with ivy leaves.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Enjolras said, one afternoon, happening upon Grantaire and Musichetta laughing, Grantaire’s hand holding his elaborate headpiece in place as Musichetta attempted to secure it. “Oh wow,” he said, “It’s looking amazing!”

“Oh,” Musichetta waved the compliment away, “Anything would look amazing on this bone structure, eh?” she shot Grantaire a wink and pinched at his cheek. “How you doing, lovely? How’s everything coming along?”

“That’s what I was meaning to say. Grantaire,” Enjolras was sure he would never get used to the electric zap that jolted through him when Grantaire’s eyes fell on him, “’Ferre and I have come to a mutual decision. Our first draft is officially complete!”

“Enjolras!” Grantaire beamed, “I’m so happy for you!”

Enjolras, high on adrenaline and the look in Grantaire’s eyes, longed for the room to be empty to the two of them. Times alone with Grantaire were a rare treat - slotted in between rehearsals and intense hours of work - a moment of stillness amidst the rush of assessments, but a rush in itself, too.  

“No way!” Musichetta hollered, reminding Enjolras that they were _not_ alone. “Let’s celebrate tonight!”

Enjolras bit his lip. “Sorry, ‘Chetta. We’re writing tonight.”

“But you just said you’d finished?” she said, humour in her tone.

“The first draft!” Enjolras threw his arms in the air, “We’re starting the second draft as soon as we get home!”

“Classic Enjolras,” Grantaire said warmly. All Enjolras wanted to do was let their hands curl together, to feel the warmth of Grantaire in his palm - he stopped the thought in its tracks and cursed the fact that images like these seemed to swarm his brain to numbness nearly every time he saw Grantaire.

“Classic me,” Enjolras retorted, a little raggedly. “Anyway, I’ve got class in a minute. What are your next steps, Musichetta?”

Musichetta finally leant back from Grantaire, the headpiece staying securely in place. “Throw your head back, darling,” she said.

“In Dionysian ecstasy?” Grantaire said, with the beginnings of a smirk curling at his lips. He leant backwards cautiously, and then shook his head side to side, the costume remaining attached to his head.

“Beaut,” Musichetta clapped. “Next steps… Cosette and our lovely Dionysus are nearly done… you’re easy, aren’t you, R?”

“Cheeky,” Grantaire said, “It’s not the first time I’ve been called that.”

Musichetta swatted him. “I mean you just need your loincloth and your laurel.”

“And my staff,” Grantaire added, “Very important.”

“Whatever,” Musichetta snorted, “So I’ve just got to focus on Feuilly’s freaky goat legs, really. I’m trying to find ethical fur-like material which is both flexible and shaggy-looking, and also not a small fortune. It’s proving harder than expected. It’s fine, though. We’ve got a bit of time, still…”

“A month,” Enjolras said, “Oh no… A _month_!”

“Three weeks, actually… We open on a Monday.” Grantaire looked perfectly at ease, though the words sent a shiver down Enjolras’ spine.

“ _No_ ,” he moaned plaintively, “I’m officially going to die.”

“Enj,” said Grantaire flatly, “You’ve got this. Stop being a drama queen.”

“I don’t know how!” Enjolras laughed, “Anyway, I really have to go. See you later guys!”

 

It was a struggle for Enjolras, for a large portion of his soul, body and mind yearned to spend lazy hours by Grantaire’s side. Oh, how easy it would be. He could probably waste a whole day just staring at the prettiness of his eyes, and another day at the rosiness of his lips, another transfixed by his long, nimble fingers, and another at the alluring sweep of hair that he longed to get tangled in. So, he was sort of forcing himself to avoid Grantaire, at the fear that the mere sight of him alone could cost him four precious days of just gazing. The blaring red cross on his calendar seemed to grow bigger and more imminent each day, until it seeped behind his eyelids when he tried to sleep.

 

Sleep was another thing Enjolras was trying to avoid. Combeferre and he would frequently work into the morning, smoothing over piano passages that kept slipping from their fingers, or tweaking lyrics for the millionth time, or swapping harmonies until they sounded perfect. Though they were so physically close for the majority of the time, knees pressed together on the small piano bench, torsos angled into one another, a hazy, tired sort of distance swept over the pair - the opera almost the only thing they could discuss.  

The hazy, tired sort of distance pervaded almost every crevice of Enjolras’ life. He found it hard to recall who he had been in the first year, or even who he had been before the opera. Although he knew the deadly cocktail of loneliness and overworking was growing more potent each day, he worried that an hour or so of avoiding it would set his work back.

There were brief respites in the kitchen, over mugs of tea or freshly ground coffee, the triumvirate, pulled together, bleary eyed and sleep deprived, joined in a communal sigh of relief. It was moments such as those which made the world feel a little bit less far away.

 

Enjolras, thinking of a string line that had been irritating him for weeks, steaming his oat milk, clattered back to reality when Courfeyrac stumbled into the kitchen.

“Coffee?” Enjolras asked.

“Ugh,” Courfeyrac’s hair was electrified, “Quadruple espresso, please.”

Enjolras laughed and began grinding the beans. “’Ferre!” he yelled through the wall, “Do you want a coffee?”

Combeferre’s rapid-fire piano practice abruptly stopped. Enjolras was so used to the sound, that the silence was the only thing that made him realise Combeferre had been playing at all. He padded into the room, his jumper almost engulfing him.

“I’m dying for a super strong americano…” he yawned and slid through a notification on his phone, “Thanks Enj, you’re an angel.”

Enjolras was too tired to speak, so the only sound was the fizzing of the steaming milk, and the crackling crush of coffee beans.

“Third year sucks, right?” Courf said after a moment too long of the quiet. It was all they needed to begin to laugh - all so exhausted that their chuckling turned into full on hysteria.

“I’m physically dying,” Enjolras said, barely able to breath through his laughter.

“I’m already decomposing,” Combeferre said. “A decomposing composer!”

Their amusement took hold of them and wouldn’t let go. The coffees were forgotten for the moment, and the three of them ended slumped on their cold, tiled kitchen floor, tears of mirth in their eyes.

 

“I’ve missed you guys so much,” Enjolras said.

“Same,” Courfeyrac sighed, collapsing his head on Enjolras’ shoulder.

“Double same,” Combeferre echoed. “Hey, it’s just twenty days though, and then the opera will be running… and then give it another month and we’ll officially be done with Saint-Michel forever…”

“Don’t…” Courfeyrac pouted, “I want to pretend there will always be orchestra meetings with you two… I don’t want us to all be on different sides of the world. Let’s stay here on the floor forever.”

Enjolras tucked his head onto his knees, the kitchen floor seeming like a perfect place to hibernate for the next six months.

“Plans for what comes next?” Courfeyrac asked, curling his arm around Enjolras’ bicep and squeezing tightly.

“I’m waiting to hear back from a bunch of internships,” Combeferre huffed, “I kind of just want to move to the ocean and teach piano to kids, and wander through forests, and ignore Parisian responsibility for a year or so…”

“That sounds like heaven,” Courfeyrac leant his head back, the glittering reflection of Paris from the window catching in his eyes. “Maybe I’ll join you and be your live-in flautist.”

“Live-in flautist sounds like a nineteenth century innuendo for lover,” Enjolras laughed. “What are you actually thinking, Courf?”

“I mean…” he heaved a sigh, “It would be great to get into an orchestra… and I know I’m good enough… Shocking, I know, but I’ve been practising like crazy this whole year… But… I don’t know… part of me doesn’t want to,” he rolled his eyes, “Is that me just being a millennial? Like, I’d turn down a stable income because I’ve got major commitment issues…”

“We’re so young though, aren’t we?” Combeferre said, “I know what you mean. I don’t want to just go and teach in a school right away. It’s just so scarily easy to fall into the routine… I don’t want to just look up in twenty years and be like… ‘oh my god… my whole youth has just _gone_.’” He frowned. “We _are_ such millennials. It’s awful! What are your plans, Enj? Make us look terrible by explaining your fifty part plan.”

“I don’t have a fifty part plan,” Enjolras worried his lower lip between his teeth, eyes on the glow of the city. “I’m completely lost.”

Courfeyrac nudged Enjolras’ shoulder. “Babe… I hope you realise you’re going to be getting invitations to join orchestras all across Europe for your opera… The big bad corporate organisers are going to be thirsty to snap you up. You can have your pick of where you want to go.”

“I’m not even sure I want to be part of an orchestra anymore…” Enjolras said carefully, the words hesitant like an egg cracked slowly over a bowl. The shockwaves shuddered through their whole apartment.

“You _what _?”__ Courfeyrac screeched.

“Seriously?” Combeferre gaped. “Since when?”

“For a while, I guess…” the cold of the tiles was seeping into Enjolras’ bones, making him hyper aware of the silence left for him to fill. “They’re all just so commercial… and elitist and I don’t think I can be part of that.” He tried to jumble the rogue thoughts that had been swarming his brain for months into words. “I’ve always known… _We’ve_ always known… The Classical world is terrible for anyone who isn’t rich, white and privileged. I mean, _our_ orchestra is the most diverse subsection of the whole school, because we’ve made a massive effort to make it that way! I don’t want to just be another rich white boy in a sea of rich white boys, playing every night to rich old white men. It sounds soul destroying. It goes against everything I am.” He closed his eyes, searching for a raft in the swirling shipwreck of his mind. “I’ve always known. But… working with Feuilly so closely… it makes me remember how much we take for granted. He’s never seen an opera in his life, and he wants to be an opera singer! In his whole life, he has never been able to afford _one_ ticket, so his whole training is based on watching Youtube videos and learning himself. It’s so messed up. I _can’t_ be a part of that. If you guys get into an orchestra, it would be amazing representation for kids of colour  around the world, to see you in such prestigious positions, centre-stage and lit up for everyone to see. If it were me, it doesn’t matter what I think, the world would just see my surface… what good would that do?”

“Enj,” Courfeyrac cuddled closer, “I’ll support you whatever you do. You’re one of the most talented musicians I have ever met… no lie… If you joined an orchestra, you’d deserve it a million percent.”

“I know that it’s been my dream for my whole life… but I just don’t want it anymore.” He exhaled, a fragment of his stress drifting away. “God, it feels so good to finally say that.”

“So what _do_ you want, then?” Combeferre asked, eyes steady behind his frames.

“That’s the bit I’m stuck on,” Enjolras admitted. “I’ve got no idea. Something for good, for anyone less able to experience classical music, to expand the accessibility of it all…. I’ve got no idea.”

“You’ve got time,” Combeferre said, expression comforting. “We’ve all got time.”

“To being lost!” said Courfeyrac, miming a cheers with his empty mug.

“To being typical millennials and avoiding commitment!”

“To the best friends ever!” Enjolras met his friends’ coffee cups. A while later, as they drifted back to their constellation of neverending work and assignments, they all felt a little less lost and a little less alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank yoooooooooou so much for reading! what do you want to see next? i loooove how soft and sleepy all of my boys are, my heart is full! 
> 
> like always, please let me know what ya think! comments are my lifeblood!


	20. Impromptu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras, Grantaire and Marius get locked in a room together. It sounds like the start of a bad joke, and it ends in the same manner.

“Okay, final question,” Combeferre said in their meeting. “Black or white shirts for the orchestra?”

“Surely black, no?” Musichetta interjected. “Sleek, symphony-esque, not distracting…”

“Please let us wear togas. Please!” Courfeyrac begged, “I look incredible in a toga!”

“No to togas,” Enjolras frowned, “Sorry, Courf. Hmm… I think it could look better though if they wore more forest-themed colours. Nothing crazy, but some dark greens and golds and browns could tie everything together…”

“I don’t have time to make costumes for your whole orchestra, babe,” Musichetta said, biting the inside of her cheek. “Let’s say black for the base, and whoever can source anything else can wear that. I’ll give them a few leaves for their hair, a few sprigs of ivy for their jackets… that sort of thing.”

“Perfect,” Enjolras said, checking his watch. “Okay, we’ve ran over our time slot. Sorry, guys! Any last minute issues before dress rehearsals?” He surveyed the room, the select crowd involved with the intricacies of the opera development. “No? Wonderful. See you tomorrow, then. Thanks for your work today.”

The team rushed out, desperate to get final preparations done.

 

The only person who hadn’t moved an inch was Grantaire.

 

“Hi,” he said, stretching out over his chair. “Just checking in.”

“It’s been a while,” Enjolras said.

“It _has_ been a while,” Grantaire echoed, a whole universe of questions in his eyes. “I feel like I see you as your composer and conductor self during practice, and then you’re off running somewhere else.”

“Sorry,” Enjolras frowned, “It’s been… hectic.”

“No need to apologise, Enjolras. I totally get it. Just want to make sure you’re alright.”

Enjolras nodded, before really thinking about his answer. “Yeah,” he said, “I kind of am. Like, insanely stressed and busy, but I think we’ll be alright.”

“I think we will be, too,” Grantaire said, gesturing for Enjolras to sit beside him. “I miss you, though.”

Enjolras, taken aback, did not know what to say. For all of Grantaire’s casual phrases, this did not ring with his usual easiness. “I…” he started, “It’s been ages since we’ve hung out.”

The tiniest of flinches passed over Grantaire’s face, almost missed by Enjolras’ sharp eyes.

“I mean, yeah,” he attempted to backtrack, “I miss you, too.”

“Let’s… hang out soon,” Grantaire said, eyes compelling.

“Now?”

“Now?” he laughed, “Are you free?”

“For like…” Enjolras checked his watch, “Ten minutes…”

“That works for me,” Grantaire grinned, reaching for Enjolras’ hand. The moment their skin met, Enjolras could hear clearer, every minuscule sound burst loud in his eardrums. Grantaire’s soft breathing, his own heartbeat, the distant, underwater sound of voices from miles away. He leant to connect their lips, realising that he was kissing like he was drowning and Grantaire’s lips were the only source of oxygen.

“What if someone comes in?” Grantaire mumbled, as they broke apart to breathe.

“I don’t care,” Enjolras said, relishing the warmth of Grantaire under his hands, “As long as you don’t care, I don’t care.”

“Of course I don’t care,” Grantaire laughed, curling an arm around Enjolras’ shoulders, and tracing a delectable line up his scalp with his fingernails. Enjolras felt himself melting into the floorboards.

Grantaire made his heart race faster than it ever did under stage lights, with audiences of thousands - the thrill of performing came nowhere close to the thrill of his lips. He longed to be closer, longed for them to become one.

 

A soft snick of the door sounded from behind him. Enjolras leapt to his folder, scanning through diligently, his mouth swollen and tingling.

“Oh,” came the quietest voice, followed by a frantic jangling of the door handle.

“Hey, Marius,” Grantaire said coolly, buttoning the top of his shirt.

“Oh no,” Marius sounded distraught. “The door is stuck!”

Enjolras could not even bear turning around to catch eyes with the boy.

“Oh no, I’m so sorry, oh my God, I’m so embarrassed, I’m _so_ sorry,” he squeaked.

Enjolras slowly looked up and their gaze connected. Marius was practically glowing radioactive red.

“Hey, Marius,” he tried to say evenly. “Try turning the handle the other way.”

Marius yanked at the handle even more desperately. “I so did not mean to interrupt. I didn’t know if anyone was in here!”

“It’s fine,” Grantaire said, a bruise of pink brushed over his cheekbones. “No big deal.”

Marius heaved an enormous sigh and stopped struggling for a moment. “Mad though… I mean… _you two _…__ I never would never have known…” he tilted his head in a clunky, over-dramatic way. “I suppose… I kind of introduced you guys romantically, a bit… didn’t I?”

Grantaire and Enjolras shared a dubious look.

“You remember, in the smoking area, a while ago… After the party…”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “Maybe you should try the door again, Marius.”

“Sorry,” Marius blabbered, “I’m really happy that you guys are dating, though.” He yanked at the door and it finally flew open. Marius being Marius, however made little attempt to leave.

“What?” said Enjolras, sensing the question bubbling on Marius’ tongue.

“I’m just happy you’re _exclusively_ dating…?” Marius searched for any emotion to pass over their faces. Enjolras folded his arms and shook his head.

“See you at dress rehearsal tomorrow, Marius.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Marius shook his head and scampered from the room. As he rounded the corner, Enjolras could see the workings of an enormous grin playing on his lips.

 

“Ridiculous,” Enjolras said.

“What is Marius’ deal?” Grantaire asked, running a hand over Enjolras’ arm. “He comes out with the weirdest things…”

“Long story,” Enjolras turned pink, “Long and embarrassing.”

“Do tell?”

Enjolras flashed back to the night at Grantaire’s, the ‘horizontal’ comment, Cosette’s retreat into Grantaire’s room, Marius and him having a drunken heart-to-heart in the Parisian streets, Marius overhearing his mourning over Grantaire. Long and embarrassing was too mild to describe the tale.

“Another time, perhaps,” Enjolras grimaced, “I’ve got to run to class.”

“Of course,” Grantaire linked their fingers. “See you tomorrow, then… Are you looking forward to seeing me in my Dionysian splendour?”

Enjolras felt warm at the thought alone.

“You’ll look wonderful, I’m sure…” he said carefully, trying to force his mind to not linger on folds of toga and ivy headpieces.

Grantaire smiled, his lips curving wryly. “When can we next see each other. Not for the opera, I mean…”

“Soon,” Enjolras said, hoping he meant it.

“Soon,” Enjolras was sure he was not imagining the wistful tinge in Grantaire’s tone.

“Soon, I promise,” Enjolras reiterated. “Tomorrow. Tomorrow night I’m free.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Let’s do something fun.”

“I like the sound of that,” Grantaire squeezed his hand, before letting go and standing. “I’ll plan something - don’t worry about it. We’ll have a night to remember.” He kissed Enjolras’ cheeks and held the door ajar for him. “See you tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow,” Enjolras said - splitting ways with Grantaire, but feeling closer to him than ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short n' sweet.... Enjolras is soooo exasperated with Marius but I looooooveeeee him so much. what could grantaire be planning? THE OPERA IS GETTING CLOSER!!! what are my orchestra babes gonna doooo?!?
> 
> let me know all your thoughts! i looovee reading any comments so much! bless YOU!


	21. Harmony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stars of the Saint-Michel Dionysian opera go to watch the stars. AKA feelings are spilled beneath the skies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey folks thanks for sticking along for the journey, I started a tumblr for my fic and stuff, not much there yet but come and say hiiiii! I'd love to be frieeends! https://songbird-musing.tumblr.com/ 
> 
> think this is one of my fave chapters I've written sooo hope you enjoy! let me know your thoughts!

Enjolras and Combeferre were the only two in the rehearsal room. The session started at nine, but they had both -  in a flourish of anxiety and over-preparedness -  arrived two hours early. They were both pristine in their orchestra black shirts, although they had ditched the long-tailed coats that most traditional orchestras wore. They ran through the less-rehearsed pieces, Combeferre’s eyes steady on the dogeared music.

“Great,” said Enjolras, peering at his notes, “But I think that the B flat you play is a B natural the second time around… we sharpened it to match the vocal melody, remember?”

Combeferre scribbled something down and ran through the section again, nodding along to the complex time signature. “Why did we write it so complicated?” he grumbled, “I mean 7/4 time… who does that?”

 

By the time nine o clock rolled around, the room was packed to the brim with all of the orchestra, the singers, the designers, the stage tech people, and the impact of everything Enjolras had been working towards for months cascaded into his lungs.

“Wow,” he said, looking out to the faces that were all looking back to him, “Today is a big day.” He nodded, trying to keep his emotions in check. To think this journey had started just a few months prior, with Enjolras listening in the wings to Grantaire performing Handel. He realised with a jolt, that no other project he had undertaken at Saint-Michel had made his heart feel so full. “Thank you so much for all of your inimitable hard work over these last few months. I know how demanding this has been, and how little time we’ve had to execute this. I can’t think of anyone else I would rather take on this crazy project with,” he said with a beam, nodding at everyone. “Let’s move to the stage for our first dress rehearsal!”

He lead the troupe towards the stage, feeling like the ringmaster of a travelling circus, with all of his players following him. He pushed open the heavy double doors and felt his heart beat ten times as quickly in his chest. The stage, usually barren and a vast display of black, empty space, had completely been transformed into a modern, sleek forest. Spindly silver trees sculpted from reused coat-hangers and splintered wooden beams fringed the edges of the stage, reaching out into the audience like disfigured limbs. Clever layering of levels gave a Greek amphitheatre effect, Enjolras could picture Grantaire striding through the trees, consulting with his crowd and ruling over the wilderness. Enjolras would have to thank Joly for dating a genius stage designer.

The cast and orchestra were swept up in excitement, jumping to explore the set and the view from different places in the auditorium. After a brief pause to allow the wonderment to pass, Enjolras clapped his hands together, and everyone turned to him, anticipating his every word.

“Alright guys… Orchestra take your seats and warm up, cast go and get changed. Musichetta is backstage and I think she’s going to run you through your costume and makeup… See you in a bit.” The cast filed out, chattering loudly. Enjolras watched Cosette making Grantaire laugh as they left. As he turned back, Marius’ eyes were trained on him. “Overture, let’s go.”

Enjolras conducted ferociously, feeling the passion and intensity of the music course through his every limb. They were just finishing rehearsing the overture to Enjolras and Combeferre’s high expectations, when the double doors clattered open and the cast re-entered.

 

The ensemble cast were resplendent in reds, roses, poppies and carnations spilling from their temples, button holes and dungaree clasps. Cosette, in periwinkle blue, transcendent, translucent and hardly-there like a dream. Her golden hair tumbled past her shoulders, pinned under a tiara of stars, that glimered unbelievably under the stage lights. As she moved, the dress floated around her, almost in slow-motion, a flash of silver catching once in a while.

 

Grantaire.

 

_Oh no._

 

Grantaire.

 

Enjolras would have to thank Joly again for also dating a genius costume designer.

He was worried his cheeks were flaring, which would not have been professional in the slightest.

Grantaire’s dark curls traced down the nape of his neck, framed with a crown of golden ivy leaves. Somehow the shade made his skin burnish copper, and his green eyes burn like a furnace. The toga that had been nothing more than a thought that Enjolras desperately tried to repress, was now a reality, mere meters from him - it was hard not to catch alight. The wine-purple velvet was cut to fit just perfectly, baring a slice of Grantaire’s brown chest, leaving his toned and inked arms uncovered.

He gave Enjolras a smile.

Enjolras thought back to the boy a few months before, who had asked him for a lighter on the steps of Saint-Michel - how his smoky eyes had taken Enjolras aback even then, how he had smiled, then too. It was the same lips and teeth that engaged in the activity, lips and teeth that Enjolras now knew far more intimately, lips and teeth that had grazed his own, had crushed into the warmth of his skin. And his eyes, the very same that had seen him conduct as a stranger, and now had seen the deepest parts of Enjolras that he rarely exposed, seen further than the surface of his skin, somehow had seen to the depths of him.

Enjolras’ heart rumbled a percussion line through his chest.

_‘Of course you’re attracted to him,’_ he mentally scorned his brain, _‘we’ve established that.’_ His traitorous brain replied: _it’s more than that._

Grantaire turned to laugh at something Feuilly muttered, throwing his head back in his well-versed Dionysian way, eyes scrunched shut, throat bobbing, teeth exposed and the tunnel of his mouth somehow illicit. Enjolras had the unquenchable feeling that it was a crime against the universe that Grantaire had not been sculpted in marble. _No _.__ He had already written an _opera _,__ he was simply not going to let himself learn to sculpt marble.

“Okay,” he said, an unexpected croak cracking his voice in two. He cleared his throat, a flame of embarrassment licking up his cheeks. “Okay, guys. You look incredible… I mean, you _all_ look incredible. Take your places in the wings. We’ll straight from the Overture and run straight through. If you make any mistakes, keep going. We’ll do a full run and then focus on smaller things later this afternoon. Good luck, everyone. Let’s do this!”

“Let’s do this!” echoed Courfeyrac, shooting Enjolras a supportive wink. Anticipation crept over them all. The cast disappeared, the orchestra readied their instruments and Enjolras lifted his baton with grace and poise.

 

What followed was not perfect. Lines were missed. Notes were botched. Italian was mispronounced. Entrances were made late. A violin dipped awfully out of tune. Enjolras flicked his baton too fiercely and it rolled away. Combeferre, though the notes were imprinted on his brain, crashed his fingers into the wrong keys at a vitally dramatic moment.

It was not perfect, but when Grantaire was the last to run out of the wings, sweeping his arms wide and folding deep in a bow, his hair mussed, his chest heaving, a light burning bright inside him, Enjolras felt a heavy blow to his chest, tears blurring his vision. He practised his own bow, turning to the empty auditorium and inclining his neck. The short passage of music that followed sent the cast offstage and finally twinkled into silence.

 

The quiet lasted for a few seconds, before a single whoop cracked through the veneer, and suddenly everyone was on their feet, back on the stage, cheering and clapping - the sound overwhelming. Enjolras found himself in Combeferre’s arms, and then Courfeyrac’s, and then somehow Marius’, and then they were all embraced in a messy cluster, slicked with sweat, stage makeup and absolute joy. The months of lost sleep and anxiety had turned into something _real _.__ Through the haze of it all, Enjolras looked to all the faces in the crowd around him - they had _all_ been a part of something that spawned in his brain.

For the rest of rehearsal, no matter how hard he tried, he could not slip into his usual stern conducting role, because he was filled with so much delight.

“Speech, speech, speech!” Courfeyrac pushed Enjolras at the end of the day.

He was bone weary, arms and shoulder muscles aching like they had been rolled flat.

“Thank you so much everyone. You’ve been incredible today. You’ve been incredible through this whole process. Today we have made so much progress, it has taken me aback. I know I can be pretty tough,” he heard a snigger from Jehan and Courf, “But if in ten years you only remember one thing about me, please remember how grateful I am to each and every one of you for being involved in this insane opera. Get a good night’s rest before tomorrow. I’ll see you all here at 9AM. We have exactly seven days,” he checked his watch, “Pretty much to the hour. At this time next week we’ll be opening. I know we’re all busy and involved in a million things, but let’s make this opera incredible. See you tomorrow.”

There was a smattering of applause and eventually the room drained.

 

Grantaire, now in a sleek black sweater, a smudge of golden stage make up still adorning his eyes, stopped leaning on the stage and advanced on Enjolras.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready,” Enjolras smiled, linking their fingers. “I’m ready to _not_ get an early night.”

“Ooh,” Grantaire gave a cat-like grin, “ _Scandalous_. I won’t tell Combeferre if you don’t…”

 

Grantaire led them to the metro, but instead of heading North towards the artist’s quarter that Enjolras had assumed they were heading towards, they journeyed further East, almost at the edge of Paris when Grantaire whisked them off the train.

“Where are we going?” Enjolras asked.

“You know I’m not going to answer that, don’t you?” Grantaire laughed and curled into Enjolras’ arm, “I’m glad you wore a coat.”

They carried on further into the unknown. Enjolras trusted that Grantaire knew where he was going, since he had never explored this hidden part of Paris. They climbed a hill, and an enormous park rolled out as far as the eye could see, trees bowing under the twilit sky.

“Lie down,” Grantaire said.

“Um,” Enjolras squinted. Grantaire unrolled a large woolen blanket down across the grass. Enjolras narrowed his eyes even more. “What?”

“Come on, Enjolras. Have you never been on a date before?” Grantaire laughed briefly before sobering, “Not that that would matter, of course.”

“This is a date?”

“Yeah, what did you think it would be?” Grantaire quirked a brow and pulled Enjolras to sit.

“I…” Enjolras faltered. He had imagined them taking to Grantaire’s bed as soon as the rehearsal drew to an end.

“Do I have to use the line?” Grantaire giggled, poking at Enjolras’ ribcage, “You’d look great horizontal. Come on, Enj.”

Enjolras finally acquiesced and dropped his head next to Grantaire’s. “Wow,” he breathed, drinking in the beauty of the sky and its multitude of stars.

“Yeah, wow,” Grantaire sighed contentedly, “You can’t see this in central Paris, can you?” He rolled onto one elbow, Enjolras could feel Grantaire’s eyes hot on his face. “You know how all the constellations are named after gods and myths and stuff?”

“Is there a Dionysus?”

Grantaire huffed a soft laugh. “No. Isn’t that rubbish? I planned this whole thing on the belief that there would be a Dionysus constellation, or at least a star, but nothing!”

“It’s still pretty,” Enjolras said. “We can name a star Dionysus on our own.”

“Ah,” Grantaire said, as though he was pulling a rabbit from a hat, “But there is no need! For I found something much better than a mere star called Dionysus…”

“A planet?”

“Nope, a _meteor_. 3671 Dionysus” Grantaire grinned, “Classified as __‘_ potentially hazardous _.__ ’” He slipped a hand onto Enjolras’ chest. “I think that describes our boy Dionysus better than any star adjectives.”

“Potentially hazardous,” Enjolras rolled the words around his lips. “I like it. It suits you.”

“Do you think _I’m_ potentially hazardous, Enjolras?” Grantaire teased, his voice low and throaty. It was a joke, but it still made Enjolras’ chest close up.

“You’re _definitely_ hazardous,” Enjolras grinned.

“Careful,” Grantaire said, _“I think you’re the dangerous one…_ ”

“Hm?” Enjolras enquired, but instead of answering, Grantaire kissed him.  

 

They kissed until the spring sunlight began to dawn around them, swaddled in the blankets, too cold to undress further, but their hands brushing scalding hot skin.

“Enjolras, I…” Grantaire’s voice was ragged, and his palm was burning on Enjolras’ hip, half tucked into his jeans. “I…”

“What?” Enjolras’ lips were as red as rose petals.

A soul-shattering sigh creaked from his chest. “What happens after the opera?”

“I don’t know,” Enjolras said honestly.

“I mean, I get it. You’ll probably be off to Vienna, or London or something, to perform in an orchestra, but do we just go back to being strangers?” A wavering uncertainty that Enjolras hadn’t seen before rippled in Grantaire’s eyes.

“No,” he said, “No, obviously not. You…”

_You’re really important to me,_ he almost said.

“It doesn’t matter where we are, we’re friends, aren’t we?” Enjolras finished. “I like spending time with you.”

 

Grantaire’s head was warm on Enjolras’ chest. He did not speak for a moment.

 

“Yeah, we’re friends,” he said quietly. “Hey,” his usual brightness re-entered his tone, “You’d better not forget me. You’ll have a different Dionysus in every major city of the world.”

“I won’t,” Enjolras said, a hint too quickly, “You’ll always be the original, won’t you?”

“I guess you never forget your _first_ Dionysus…” Grantaire grinned, “Everyone says that.”

“Grantaire…?”

“Yeah?” he sounded cosily sleepy.

“Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself, but… If this ends up going anywhere… Would you… I mean, in the off chance that it _did _,__ would you want to be involved in the future?”

“With the opera?” Grantaire sat up, suddenly alert. “Enjolras, I- I would love that,” he buried his head in his hands, clutching at his hair, “I could play Dionysus until I retire.”

Enjolras laughed and accepted the hug that Grantaire slunk into, and the sweet kiss on his lips. “Until you retire? I’d write you a new opera so you won’t get bored.”

Grantaire fell silent again. “Enjolras, I- I’ve never met anyone quite like you before.”

“I hope that’s a compliment.”

“Course it is,” Grantaire gave him a heavy look. It looked as though he was longing for Enjolras to say something, but Enjolras didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t spill his ungainly, too large, feelings in front of them. “ _Yeah_ ,” Grantaire said after a moment of quiet, “You’re one of a kind, Enjolras.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh this is one of my faveeee chapters, I am a SUCKER for a stargazing scene, it just has to be done, doesn't it? please let me know all your thoughts, comments make me feel aliiiivee! Thank you all for reading, I'm honestly gobsmacked that it has over 2000 reads, I'm shaken! 
> 
> Hope y'all are looking forward to the opera performance and whatever comes next for our boys AGH I LOVE THEM


	22. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras does what he is best at: conducting and repressing his emotions.

“Okay, major issue,” Enjolras said to Combeferre and Courfeyrac in a private rehearsal room at midday.

“I know I keep messing up that _one_ chord in the ensemble chorus. It’s annoying me beyond belief, too,” Combeferre said, rolling his eyes.

“No,” Enjolras could barely consider the opera, “I think I’m in love.”

“Oh, Enjolras,” said Courfeyrac, “I knew my trust in your _casual fling_ was misplaced.”

“I don’t know what to do,” he sat at the piano and had to force himself not to play a deeply tragic Rachmaninoff piece on auto-pilot.

“Have you told him?” Courfeyrac pressed.

“Obviously not. I’m not an imbecile,” Enjolras let out a haggard sigh, “But he makes it _so_ difficult!”

“Maybe you _should_ talk to him,” Combeferre said reasonably.

“Six days before we open the opera that he is the lead tenor for?” Enjolras threw his hands in the air, “Obviously I can’t!”

“Well, put off seeing him until the opera’s over, then,” Combeferre sounded deeply _over_ Enjolras’ dramatics.

“I can’t!” Enjolras felt his drama-levels increasing, but could do nothing to stop them, “He’s _the lead tenor of the opera!_ We have intensive rehearsal - how am I _not_ going to see him?”

“Chill, Enj,” Courfeyrac shrugged a shoulder, “How do you even know its love? He’s just hot in a toga, as anyone would be… If I could wear a toga in daily life, my love life would be insane.”

“It’s not the toga,” Enjolras paused, “It’s not _just_ the toga…”

“What would your ideal outcome be, Enjolras?” questioned Combeferre, “Because you probably won’t be in Paris next autumn, and Grantaire has another year here.”

 

There was a long pause.

 

“I don’t know!”

“Well figure it out,” Combeferre folded his arms, “And then we’ll be able to help you more. But it would be ideal if you wait until after the opera to wreck yourself in emotional turmoil… If you could hold it off until after the dissertation, that would be great!”

“Oh I am _sorry _,__ ” Enjolras over-annunciated, “That my emotional turmoil does not come at a time convenient for you, Combeferre.”

Combeferre’s eyebrows rose up his forehead. “Drop the sass, Enjolras.”

“Ooh, you got owned,” Courfeyrac added quietly. “Anyway, I hate to cut your emotional turmoil short, blah, blah, blah,” Courfeyrac gestured wildly, “But we’re due back in the auditorium, so… pull yourself together, if you can. Peace.” He shot them both a peace sign and swung out of the room.

“Ugh,” Enjolras moaned.

“It probably _is_ just the toga,” Combeferre tried to help, unsuccessfully. “Come on, let’s get back to work.”

 

~*~

 

Enjolras and Combeferre ended the day, slumped on their sofa, trying to ignore the opera with everything in them. They typed on never-ending documents, the flurry of quiet chatter from the radio blurring over them.

The front door crashed open, and enthusiastic conversation lapped through the room.

“Hey Courf,” Combeferre looked up and smiled, “Hey Marius.”

Enjolras tried not to wince.

“Hey guys,” Marius said brightly, “Long time no see!”

Enjolras, who had seen him less than three hours ago, couldn’t fake a laugh. “Hi Marius,” he said, glumly.

“’Ferre,” Courfeyrac said abruptly, “You left your dissertation in my room… Let’s get it.”

 

Enjolras gaped at them both, as they gave him a reproachful stare and disappeared. So much for the best friends in the world.

Marius gave a content sigh and collapsed on the sofa. “Enjolras,” he said sunnily, a hand to his chest. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“What?” Enjolras said, wondering how anybody could deal with the swooning mess that was Marius Pontmercy.

“And I suppose that thanks is reciprocated on your behalf…?”

 

Enjolras found no words to say.

 

“For setting each other up!” Marius said, bright with delight. “We’ll forever be linked. At my wedding, you will be the first person I thank!”

“Are you quite alright? Do you have a fever?” Enjolras frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Marius laughed and sunk deeper into the couch. “Cosette smiled at me today… and I felt myself turn into the morning sun. I don’t know what overcame me… but I asked her to run her lines with me, and she said yes!” he beamed. “It’s all thanks to you and your opera! I will forever be in your debt!”

“Marius,” Enjolras pressed his lips together, “Are you high?”

“Only on life, my dear friend!”

“Perhaps you need to calm down,” Enjolras sat stiffly at his end of the sofa, “I don’t have any say in your love life, and nor do you in mine.”

“Enjolras,” Marius sobered, “I’m not loving this dynamic.” He placed a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder, and Enjolras’ frown deepened. “We don’t need to be enemies of passion anymore! Grantaire likes you, Cosette is going on a date with me. We aren’t torn apart by their love affair anymore.”

_‘I found you exhasperating before I knew who Grantaire was…’_ The words nearly tripped off his tongue, but he clamped his mouth shut. “I’m not sure that was what stood between us, Marius.”

“Why let anything stand between us?” Marius queried, his eyes wide and friendly, and exasperatingly Marius-esque. Enjolras sighed, resenting the feeling that his icy exterior was melting somewhat. “I really respect you, Enjolras. I think what you’ve done with your opera is so _freaking_ cool…”

“Thanks,” he said, forehead contorted.

“And like, next year… we’ll be doing different things. And I think I would regret it, if we left Saint-Michel like this… I was talking to Courf about it, and he said I should talk to you.”

 

Enjolras scowled at Courfeyrac’s closed door. There were not many things he hated more in the world than a set-up. “Did he really?”

“Yeah. He’s right. Look, I know I’m _not_ the best bassoonist in the world, and I miss notes sometimes, and I-”

“That isn’t why-” Enjolras bit his tongue, “I mean… you’re a perfectly good bassonist, Marius. You wouldn’t be in the orchestra if you weren’t.”

“Well,” he blistered with pink pride, “Thank you. What I mean, is that seeing your love for Grantaire really inspired me. I mean, writing an amazing opera for him! That’s incredible, Enjolras. That’s proper ancient Greek muse stuff!”

“I’m not in love with Grantaire,” Enjolras coughed, spluttering on his words, “I didn’t- I mean, the opera isn’t- wasn’t… _isn’t_ for him… That isn’t what happened.”

“Whatever it was… it inspired me to go for Cosette. I hope one day I can one day do something as incredible as writing an opera for her…”

“I did not write the opera for Grantaire,” Enjolras said more securely, “I was already… I’d thought about it before I met him.”

“It’s so romantic,” Marius swooned.

“No,” Enjolras groaned, “I don’t care about romance. I care about music.”

 

Marius flung himself on Enjolras, embracing deeply. He gave a sigh and sunk into Enjolras’ upright chest. _“I think it’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard of.”_

“No,” Enjolras felt like he needed a nap. “Are you listening to me, Marius? That isn’t what happened. I don’t love Grantaire. I didn’t write the opera for him. It’s not…”

Marius flapped his hands, silencing Enjolras mid-flow. “I know, I know… you’re the scary conductor… No one is allowed to see that you think about anything else but classical music. But…” Marius smiled, “That night. When you invited me to stay. When Grantaire and Cosette… well… You know…”

“Yes, alright, Marius. I haven’t forgotten.”

“That night I saw the real _you_.”

“I don’t think you did.”

“I _know_ I did. You can try to push me away because you know I’m speaking the truth, but I know I’m right.” Marius caught eyes with Enjolras and would not let him look away. “I’m your friend, Enjolras. And I know that you are more romantic than you let on.”

“It appears we’re at an ideological stalemate.”

“It appears you’re a liar, Enjolras,” Marius said, his eyes widening slightly and a blush punching through his cheeks. “I mean… No offence, or anything.”

 

“Well,” Enjolras had not been lying when he told Grantaire he wasn’t good at talking about his feelings. “Shall we talk about something else. There are more important things in the world than love.”

“Not much is more important than love,” Marius beamed, his eyes turning honeyed again, “Cosette could stab me and I would thank her.”

Enjolras shook his head and stood, needing a strong dose of caffeine to sooth his Marius-shaped migraine. “My first words would probably be more along the lines of ‘why the hell did you just stab me?’”

Marius giggled, closing his eyes. “Yeah, but if you _had_ to die… wouldn’t you wish it was by Grantaire’s side?”

“Marius. You have a serious case of lovesickness. It’s making you talk utter nonsense.”

“I _am_ sick with love,” Marius smiled, “ _But _…__  I still haven’t written an opera for her, yet.”

Enjolras sighed. Coffee was not going to be strong enough to cope with either a lovelorn Marius, or the well buried feelings he was uprooting from Enjolras’ chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank yooou for reading! been so touched with the outpour of comments - literally they made me sooo happy and super inspired to write more! 
> 
> aaaahhhhhhhhh I know my marius is so dumb and annoying but I love him with my whole heart, he's such a puppy. this is the last chapter before the opera, so I thought a bit of triumvirate catch up was needed! 
> 
> is enjolras going to be a FOOL forever? will grantaire forever be oblivious? would I really do that to you? WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN NEXT? let me know what you think!


	23. Overture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is the evening of the opera. Enjolras seeks out a familiar soul before the performance begins.

His hands shook over the porcelain, his bones clenched, the chill of it bleeding into his fingers.

_Pull yourself together,_ he thought to himself, breath ragged and too loud for the quiet of the bathroom. _Someone could walk in._

He hoisted himself up, hands still curled around the sink. In the mirror, his blue eyes stared back, wide, blood-shot, the same eyes he had stared into for twenty years, but somehow still never truly known. He straightened, each bump of his spine rolling into place, his chest filling with oxygen. He smoothed his brow, buttoning the starch black linen shirt over his racketing heart. The collar was strangling against his neck. With a cultivated smile, he pushed the door open and left the silent safety of the toilets.

Though he could hear the thrum of people beginning to enter the school, there was only one place Enjolras’ mind could think of amidst its blur.

 

The smoking area.

 

He walked like a man on a mission, waving off teachers who congratulated him, smiling, making excuses. The cold air hit him, he skimmed down the steps and clattered into the small green area.

Courfeyrac, Jehan, Bossuet and a host of orchestra members were huddled around their last cigarettes for the next few hours. Courf blew Enjolras a kiss and gestured him over.

“The man of the hour,” Jehan smiled dopily. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for someone?” Courfeyrac asked, kicking one leg over the other. He exhaled bitter smoke into the frigid night, a laugh curled right out after the smoke. “Haven’t seen him, sorry…”

“Grantaire?” Jehan asked, gently massaging one of Enjolras’ tightly coiled shoulders. “Me neither. I know the Patron-Minette lot are watching tonight, so maybe he’s with them…”

“Where are they?” Enjolras said.

“No idea,” Jehan laughed, “They’re in the smoking area 98 percent of the time.”

“Yeah,” Enjolras’ eyes glazed as he looked around, “Well I _need_ to speak to him.”

“Woah,” Courfeyrac frowned, “Is that manic Enjolras creeping out there? Are you alright?”

Enjolras could feel the manic, desperate feeling filling his lungs and choking him. He shook his head. “I’m fine. I’ve got to speak to him.”

 

He dashed away before another word could be said, almost running through the corridors. He looked in every practice room, wishing for the sight of Grantaire’s shock of dark hair. To his despair, Grantaire was nowhere to be seen. He instead made for Combeferre’s practice room, where he knew Combeferre was obsessively warming up with scales and arpeggios, throwing his body weight into the piano.

A heavy weight smacked into his chest. Bewildered he stepped away. Grantaire’s eyes stared right back. A moment of silence passed before they collapsed into one another, their fingers intertwining like a melody.

“Jesus, Enjolras,” Grantaire said roughly, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“I’ve been looking everywhere for _you_ ,” Enjolras retorted, just grateful to feel Grantaire on his skin.

“Are you freaking out?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras said candidly, “Are you?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire laughed, “Kind of. Shit. This feels like the biggest thing I’ve done in my life.”

“This kind of feels like the biggest thing I’ll ever do.”

 

Grantaire pulled back and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right. The biggest thing this week, perhaps.” He closed his eyes and furled his head back onto Enjolras’ chest. Enjolras feared that his heartbeat was tangible through all the layers of clothing. “Enjolras. These past few months have been insane. I don’t think I can ever express to you how grateful I am that you involved me in this. It is a piece of art…” Grantaire laughed softly, the sound so comforting that Enjolras wanted to curl up and sleep in it. “In years to come, when Dionysus is playing at the Palais Garnier, the Sydney Opera House, and the Metropolitan Opera House - I can say ‘I was part of that…’ You’ve let me into your masterpiece.”

_I wrote this for you…_ the words were so simple on his tongue, but his lips locked shut.

Grantaire looked up and Enjolras was shocked to see the glimmer of tears lying in Grantaire’s eyes.

“Sorry,” Grantaire tutted, scrubbing his eyes, “So much for keeping things casual, am I right?”

Enjolras’ heart leapt into his throat.

“This is bigger than us,” Grantaire said. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough. Ugh. I always get emo before performing.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” Enjolras said, his point sounding wholly inadequate. “This wouldn’t be what it has become without you.”

 

As if to back up his point, the enormous poster, hand-drawn by Grantaire, loomed before them. Grantaire’s profile, masked by ivy leaves, sunbeams and a wild flare of dark curls, forever immortalised, with Enjolras’ name blazoned in gold beneath - it showed that while it was bigger than them both, they were embroidered into the seams of the project, linked together and tangled in every inch of it.

“You’re going to be amazing,” Enjolras said, hope, anticipation and a swell of affection surging in his throat. “Of course you’re going to be amazing.”

 

Grantaire kissed him. It was not casual in the slightest. It felt like their souls intertwined. It felt like one world ended and another began. It felt unlike anything Enjolras had experienced before, and the intensity of it almost made his heart stop.

With his hand still curled in Grantaire’s curls, their lips apart, but close, their breathing warm on each other’s faces, they stood - forehead-to-forehead - aware that after tonight, nothing would be the same again.

“I…” Grantaire began, the glint of tears still encrusted crystallised on his eyelashes. “I don’t know, Enjolras. After tonight… it’s like… you’ll be unattainable. You’ll be gone. You’ll hand in your dissertation, graduate and be gone… And I… I…”

_Oh God…_ Enjolras thought, _he’s going to break up with me._

He surged forwards to silence the words on Grantaire’s lips - knowing that if they were said aloud, he would never be able to conduct the opera in his right mind.

“Not now,” he said softly, “We can discuss this after. Let’s just focus on the performance.”

Grantaire straightened, brow contorted. “Yes,” he nodded, “Let’s focus on tonight.”

They tightened their holds on one another’s hands, a thousand words unsaid.

“Oh God,” Enjolras cracked, “We’ve got to get ready.”

Grantaire gulped, a sigh farrowing through his body. “You’re right. We have an opera to perform.”

“Yeah,” Enjolras shivered. “Yeah, I am definitely freaking out.”

 

Grantaire pulled Enjolras into his dressing room, perching him on the stiff chair. He began to unbutton his own shirt, reaching for his toga and starting to pin it into place. Enjolras helped to create the crisp folds, draping the material divinely over the planes of Grantaire’s chest.

“It’s crazy, isn’t it?” Grantaire said, fingers brushing over Enjolras’ palm as they moved in canon. “How we’ve barely known each other for half a year… And now we’re… like… linked forever by this opera… I mean, not linked in _that_ way, but this will be something significant in our lives forever…”

“I know,” Enjolras said.

They worked in silence, preparing Grantaire to the full extent of his Dionysian glory. Enjolras knew Combeferre would likely be wondering where he was, but in the close warmth of the moment in Grantaire’s dressing room, Enjolras wanted the minutes to stretch into hours and days, for them to cocoon themselves in that aura forever. Enjolras worked his deft fingers through Grantaire’s hair, weaving in waxy ivy leaves, pinning them tightly to survive the three hours of performance. As he worked, dabbing a handful of golden glitter into the texture of Grantaire’s hair, Grantaire stopped his hand.

“Enjolras,” he said. It was with that utterance that they both knew this was the moment of change. “Enjolras, you should go.”

“I should,” Enjolras nodded.

“I probably won’t see you until my entrance onstage,” Grantaire’s lips twitched into a smile. “So…”

“Good luck,” Enjolras longed to hold Grantaire in his arms and ignore the deeply welling anxieties that were seeping to his skin.

“You too,” Grantaire said. “Honestly, Enjolras… You’re at the helm of something incredible. You’re going to be astounding.”

“Astounding…” Enjolras echoed, “I hope so.”

“I know so.”

 

Enjolras hovered by the door, knowing, too, that as soon as the stage lights lifted, he would never be the same.

“Thank you,” Enjolras frowned at the formality, “I’m astounded by you, whatever happens…” he said, immediately cursing his disobedient tongue.

 

_What happened to casual?_

He swiftly left before Grantaire could break their “casual” fling off, due to the substantial nature of Enjolras’ soul.

 

He made his way to Combeferre’s practice room. Combeferre saw him coming through the glass and met him in the corridor. They walked in silence to the orchestra room.

Enjolras’ watch was weighty on his wrist. The sound of growing chatter muted through the walls were heavy on his heart.

“Okay,” Enjolras said, his pulse racing frantically like a moth fluttering against a lamp. “Let’s do this.”

 

They were silent. Instruments in hand, they stood in the wings, still and stony faced as marble. The world blared into crescendo, the lights dimmed, and Enjolras took one step forward towards the rest of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the oPeRa tHE OPERA YESSS!! Ngl I'm so hyped to post the next chapter because it is ONE OF MY FAVES (for no reason in particular teehee!) thanks again for all the comments, the waiiiiiiiit is almost over! MY BOYS I ADORE THEM! 
> 
> let me know your thoughts, been so blessed to have so many gorgeous souls commenting on this dumb fic hahaha!
> 
> ALSO I was thinking of making a classical playlist for this fic, like one song per chapter, so ya know what's going through enj's mind... would anyone be interested in that at all? Or would it just be 100% self gratuitous lollll? 
> 
> thanks for reading!!!!


	24. Performance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything that Les Amis have been working towards is here. The opening night performance of Enjolras and Combeferre's Dionysian opera ends with some much awaited truth.

All was silent.

Each step that he took echoed through the auditorium, the pulse of his heart rumbling in his ears. The stage lights burned so brightly that he could not see an inch of the audience. He inclined his head, a well-cultivated serene mask laid over his skin. When Enjolras turned to his orchestra, they all raised in their seats, knowing they were on the cusp of something world-changing. Joly gave a tight-lipped smile, Jehan held the sun in their eyes, Courfeyrac couldn’t help from grinning, knuckles pressed white against his flute. Enjolras turned to Combeferre.

Combeferre, perfectly poised over the keys of the piano, tall, bright and striking. The tiny lights clipped to his sheet music left a glare in his glasses. He sent the most minute nod in Enjolras’ direction, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

Enjolras breathed, the weight of the world seeping into his lungs.

 

He weaved his baton into the air, embroidering every member of the orchestra into one. In the depth of quiet, he struck his arm down sharply, the music of the overture bursting into life.

 

The notes, extracted from the opera’s most pivotal moments, swum between the instruments. Wherever Enjolras looked, he saw just focused expressions, furrowed brows and eyes jumping over the stack of sheet music. They turned the pages in unison, drawn together by the simple movement. Joly caught eyes with Enjolras, executed his violin solo in heart-wrenching beauty, melting into the instrument and pouring his soul into the auditorium. They swelled together, lilting towards a crescendo.

Enjolras knew what was coming, and he could hardly breathe.

 

At the highest point, Grantaire glided onstage, enrobed in an other-worldly confidence and charm. He took centre-stage, burnished gold - skin glowing under the glitter and lights, the darkness of his hair and inked tattoos starker, the brightness of his eyes brighter. Enjolras swore he had never seen anything more beautiful. And then Grantaire began to sing, and it was somehow a thousand times heavier than it had ever been in rehearsal, a million times more impactful. Had his future not been in the balance of that evening and his conducting performance, Enjolras would have had to stop - entranced by Grantaire - his voice, his soul and his heart - laid bare onstage.

As Enjolras swooped and swayed, steering the orchestra through storms to calmer seas, melding the music, notes tangible beneath his fingertips, he had never felt so electrified. He and Grantaire worked in tangent, telling the story of Dionysus to their best ability.

Grantaire was a wondrous storyteller, unpicking the words from the seams of the music, spilling them into the audience as though he were lamenting on his worries for the first time, and celebrating his ecstasy as though he had never experienced such joy.

Cosette slotted in by his side, perfectly fitted in the concave of his chest, her voice divinely leaping in harmony to his mellow tenor. She sang like a lark, breezy and pure, like the insane soprano notes were as easy as talking. Her beauty transcended the stage. Grantaire’s infatuation with her felt real - the way his eyes lingered on the swish of her hair and sapphire dress, the heave of his chest, the meeting of their sparkling gazes. Mischief slunk out of him, sleek and pantherish, drenching the stage. His laughs, thrown from a tilted back head, his bare neck and chest stretched, sheened with sweat and glitter, boomed across the room - rich and godly.

Not that Enjolras had ever doubted it before, but Grantaire was the perfect Dionysus.

So perfect it was as if he were the God of wine and pleasure reborn.

 

He entranced the audience, weaving them into his tale.

By the time Dionysus’ Aria rolled around, the world seemed to be waiting for every word that overflowed from his lips. The scandal and passion swept around them, his eyelashes swooping over heavy-lidded eyes, his mouth parted in breathy bliss, the bare planes of his chest quaking. Enjolras felt his face warm.

Just before the final mellisma at the end of the aria, Grantaire’s eyes dropped to Enjolras for a fraction of a second - Enjolras grew even warmer and almost missed a beat.

 

There are not many moments that a conductor can sense the audience behind them, but the plump silence that followed Grantaire’s final note, which then cascaded into rapturous applause, gave Enjolras the sign that the opera was going down at least marginally well.

The rest of the performance seemed to tumble past his eyes in double speed. Feuilly’s humorous numbers interspersed between long, heavy glances and lingering touches of Grantaire and Cosette’s fingertips. The Greek chorus acted as a melodic accompaniment throughout, echoing all the pivotal moments and creating a dense harmony that sounded crafted by the God’s themselves.

Grantaire’s arc progressed, from the young, arrogant God, all thrown back shoulders, untamed smiles and hungry eyes, to a man in love, hopeful, wistful, wild. When his love Ariadne was stolen away, the rift that tore through the stage, the auditorium, the world,  brought him to his knees - his eyes wild for a different reason. He sung, his tone more gravelled, his consonants sharper, his vowels howled. In his moments of silence, tremors ripped through his torso, quivers played on his lips, wells of tears pooled in his eyes.

Though he had seen it in rehearsal, Enjolras was shaken to his core - feeling every single emotion that poured from Grantaire, tangible in his throat.  

It seemed so quick, and then it seemed _too_ quick. Grantaire’s final notes surged around the audience, leaving a silence before the Greek chorus returned to their harmony, now discordant and helpless, the lament of a love lost. The whisper of long robes across the stage floor, disappearing between trees accompanied the chorus offstage, their final notes echoing longingly for moments after they were gone.

 

The silence did not last for long.

From behind him, Enjolras could hear the uptake of applause, the scraping of chairs, a few unrefined cheers. The chorus re-entered, bowing low. They were followed by the minor characters, the Maenads, the satyrs, King Midas. Feuilly as Pan, sweating, his long, shaggy trousers and hooves clomping onto the stage received an extra loud burst of applause for his skilful bass tone. Cosette drifted onstage, her cheeks pink from beaming. She curtsied, holding her hands to her chest, before beckoning to the wings of the stage. The world dropped away as Grantaire re-entered, the stage lights burningly bright in his eyes. He fell into a bow, his hair sweeping across his face, his lips unable to hide a blazing smile. The cast bowed together. Their hands turned to Enjolras. Before he looked to the audience, Enjolras looked at Grantaire, and a million universes collided in their eyes. His heart flared.

When he turned to bow, he couldn’t see the audience’s faces, but he could see that everyone was stood, and hear that the echo of applause grew louder as he bent his neck. He gestured to his orchestra, swimming in pools of pride. After one final bow, the cast left, the orchestra finished playing, and they, too left, leaving the stage empty, the moment forever archived in their brains.

 

Immediately Enjolras was swarmed by hugs and congratulations, the fever of noise overwhelming and heartshattering. Combeferre hugged him tightly and they cried together, their hearts beating as one. Courfeyrac tried to lift him, but staggered under his weight, instead lifting his arms and dancing. Cosette kissed his cheeks, smelling floral and sweet, her eyes emblazoned with tears. Joly punched his shoulder, grinning like a maniac. The celebration lasted for what felt like hours, but Enjolras’ mind was only on one person.

 

Once the initial buzz collapsed, Enjolras saw Grantaire lingering by the door, beckoning with a finger. They hurried out, leaving the swell of cheers and laughter behind.

When they reached the relative privacy of a practice room, they fell together as though it physically pained them to be apart. They laughed and cried, kissed and embraced, their fingers exploring faces and arms and the swell of their chests joining.

“ _Enjolras_ ,” Grantaire said, softly, his hands cupping Enjolras’ cheeks, their faces centimetres apart. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Enjolras’ heart began to shatter.

“I know it’s intense,” he said, willing to say anything to keep them entwined, “It doesn’t have to be. I can be more casual. I promise.”

“No, Enjolras,” Grantaire’s eyes were probing, “That’s… That’s not what I mean.”

“I want to keep you in my life,” he said candidly.

“So do I,” Grantaire’s voice cracked and he stepped away, curling in on himself.

“Then what’s the problem?” Enjolras, usually composed, felt himself fraying at the edges.

 

Grantaire threw his arms up, his eyes wild. “I’m in love with you, alright?” It burst from him like a dam breaking, his eyes widened, as though shocked by his own words. He repeated, quieter, more tentative, “ _I’m in love with you._ And I don’t know what to do.”

Enjolras was shell-shocked. The well-constructed iron covering his heart began to melt away - fragments of the coldness he allowed himself to know, dripping through his bloodstream. “What?”

“How could I not be?" Grantaire stepped back, hands shaking as they pushed his dark hair from his eyes, chest still quaking beneath his toga. "I know you’re not going to be here soon, and we’ll probably be in different countries, and you’ll be insanely busy, surrounded by a million muses, and you’re _Enjolras _,__ and I’m just Grantaire, and I’ve been trying to tell myself that, but I can’t help it. _How could I not be?_ ”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras started.

“I know, I know. What the hell happened to _casual?_ I’m sorry for screwing up your fling. I’m sorry for making it awkward… Ugh. I knew I should have waited until after we’d finished the opera…”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras interrupted, feeling the distance between them, aching at the coldness that lay where Grantaire had been. He stepped forwards to lace their fingers, the movement small but all-encompassing.  Their palms fit together as though they were meant to be one. “ _ _I’m in love with you, too__.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLLYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!! Lol I would say sorry for the 20+ chapters of pure pining,,,,, but,,,,,,, i am NOT that sorry. YES my boys said the L word and I am so proud of them... took them long enough. 
> 
> Oh yeah I guess the opera is a thing too... buT THEY SAID I LOVE YOU
> 
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think! Has the waiting paid off? (I hope so hahaha) thanks for all the beaut comments - they complete my soul!


	25. Downbeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amidst the confessions of the evening, Enjolras just wants to curl into the warmth that is Grantaire - but duty calls. He has to spend the night networking, instead.

**** _I’m in love with you, too._

 

The words crashed around them.

 

“What?” Grantaire said. “No. How?”

“What do you mean ‘how?’” Enjolras laughed, aware they were still feet apart.

“I’m just a hot mess that plays the guitar. You’re _Enjolras _…”__ he faltered, “You’re like…” he scrambled for words, “This… This Apollo-like genius god of the sun and music. You’re so beautiful it actually hurts to look at you... You’re not in love with me.”

“I definitely am,” Enjolras frowned. “I know how I feel. I _love_ you. I think I fell a little in love with you on the day we first wrote together.”

Grantaire paused for a second. “ _What? Are you sure?”_ he said again. “Sorry, I just was not expecting this.”

“Neither was I…”

“I thought you were breaking it off.”

“So did I!” Enjolras gaped. “So…”

“So…” Grantaire’s frown melted into a laugh, “So, this is…!”

Enjolras laughed too, finding Grantaire’s lips again. “It’s wonderful. Do you want to go back to your place?”

Grantaire’s eyes crinkled. “Don’t you have to schmooze your way through every orchestra professional that’s waiting out there to catch a glimpse of you?”

Enjolras crumbled. “Yeah,” his expression fell. “I guess I do.”

“Hey,” Grantaire said with a wink, “I’ll be waiting for you when you’re done.” His words fell to a whisper. “Don’t take too long,” he said against Enjolras’ lips. “Tonight is a night for true celebration.”

“I can’t wait,” Enjolras said breathily, longing to take Grantaire’s toga in his hands and pull him closer. “Ugh,” he said, “I _literally_ cannot wait.”

“But you have to,” Grantaire said evenly, giving him a slight push to the chest, “You have to dazzle everyone that wants to hire you. It won’t be hard for you.”

“It’s going to be _so_ hard,” he complained.

“Oh,” Grantaire laughed and dropped his eyes downward, “Patience, patience, Enjolras.”

 

Although it felt impossible to tear from one another’s sides, they did so and returned to the fray of people.

 

Bottles of champagne, still sweating with condensation, passed through the room. Orchestra members, fingers on glass stems instead of strings, bows or keys, laughed and smiled and chattered alarmingly brightly with the host of industry professionals that were lingering. At Enjolras and Grantaire’s entrance, every head turned to the door.

“Ah, Enjolras, was it?” came a plummy, refined, English dialect. Enjolras recalled the English lessons he had received since he was a child.

“Yes, pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he smiled, shaking the wrinkled hand that was reached out to him.

“William Brevet,” he said, handing over a business card, “From the London Symphony Orchestra. Brilliant work this evening. Your co-composer was telling me how quickly this project came around…”

Enjolras glanced to where Combeferre was deep in conversation with a small woman in a navy two-piece suit, his fingers curled around a stack of mismatched business cards.

“Yes, it has been a bit of a whirlwind.” Enjolras nodded mildly.

“Well, I wanted to offer my congratulations. I’m sure you have a lot of people to speak to tonight, but I wanted to be the first to let you know, we’d be incredibly happy to have you audition for the LSO. Send me an email and we can set something up. You’d have to pop to London for a few days, but I’d be willing to coach you on audition technique… Wouldn’t be hard to find a place for you at all, I daresay.”

“Thank you, Mr. Brevet,” Enjolras said. Such a glowing opportunity would have lodged into Enjolras’ soul and flared like a wildfire a few mere months before. He smiled tepidly again. “I’ll definitely be in touch.”

 

The interactions played out in much the same way for the rest of the night. Business cards swapped hands, accented English was thrown across the room, champagne was drunk, compliments drenched Enjolras from head-to-toe, but it felt plastic and breakable. In a lull, he sidled to Feuilly, who was hovering around the drinks table.

 

“How’s it going, Feuilly?”

“Oh, terribly,” Feuilly responded lightly, “I mean, the opera was incredible, obviously. It’s just… people keep trying to talk to me in English, and… we’re in France? Ugh. Everyone’s just so judgemental… It’s like, just ‘cos I can’t speak twelve languages, I lose appeal. It’s the way it always is.”

“Yeah, it’s a bit painful, isn’t it?” Enjolras shrugged, “I’m not loving it, myself, either.”

He opened his mouth but someone cut in, business card in hand, speaking rapid-fire English about a symphony orchestra, hard to decipher through a heavy New York accent. Feuilly’s eyes glazed as Enjolras laughed and nodded, preening like a conductor maestro. When she left, Enjolras’ smile dropped, and he shared an eye-roll with Feuilly.

“You make it look so easy,” Feuilly said, fiddling with the stem of his glass.

“You’re not missing out on much, anyway,” Enjolras said, “I’m drowning in pretentiousness…”

Feuilly snorted. “Coming from you, it _must_ be serious.”

“I’m not pretentious!” Enjolras protested. At Feuilly’s scrunched features, he added, “I’m not _that_ pretentious. Anyway. I’ll save the speeches for our opera afterparty, but you were really incredible, Feuilly. I’m really glad I broke the rules to get you involved.”

“I’m glad you broke the rules, too,” Feuilly stretched out to swallow his champagne. “What’s the afterparty gonna be like? I’ll bring my own drinks if it’s going to be like this. Champagne is trash.”

“It definitely isn’t going to be like this. No way. Grantaire’s friend Éponine will probably demand to hold the party. She’s cool. There’s no way it will be like this.”

Feuilly shrugged and refilled his glass. “Think I’m gonna bounce. Have a good night, Enjolras. See you tomorrow.”

“You too,” Enjolras said, rather glumly, turning around to face another dozen conversations with industry folk.

 

Valjean’s conversation was a brief respite between it all.

“Enjolras,” he said, beaming, “The man of the hour.”

“Well… It’s a team effort, isn’t it?” Enjolras said, his head a little blurry from the champagne.

“I’m so glad you took my advice,” Valjean said, “You’ve created something quite spectacular. To you!” he said, raising his glass.

“To me!” Enjolras laughed in return, drinking the cool, bubbly liquid.

 

The rest of the evening spiralled by in more glasses of champagne, bright, English conversations, languid smiles and charming laughter. Enjolras heard the same compliments about the opera: its depth, its freshness, its lyricism, its splendour. He tucked them all under his skin with shallow gratitude. Finally, as the room began to empty, he held a brick of business cards (which was frankly terrible for the environment) and had dazzled everyone in the room a thousand times over.

He knew rather well that he could be charming. His parents strict upbringing and constant stream of esteemed guests had led to his ease when networking. When he was alone, however, the weight of it all pummelled him in the chest like an oncoming train.

Enjolras and Combeferre met in the centre of the room, completely drained from the hours of chatter.

“I think I’m losing my voice,” Combeferre complained, “I hope all of our vocalists went home early. We can’t have any of them sounding worse for wear.”

“Grantaire went home ages ago,” Enjolras said, concealing a yawn. “Wow, ‘Ferre. We’ve only gone and done it, haven’t we?”

Combeferre looked up, a sparkle in his eyes. “Yeah,” he grinned, “We have. It’s pretty unbelievable, isn’t it?” He grinned, an exhale ricocheting through his chest. “Do you want to nick a bottle of champagne and watch a movie to celebrate?”

Enjolras smiled. “I’d love to, but I’m meeting Grantaire.”

“Look at you! I would have expected more emotional turmoil.”

He turned pink, unable to stop his smile bleeding onto his lips.

“What?” Combeferre urged. “What’s going on?”

Enjolras leant close to whisper. __“_ He said he loved me.”_

Combeferre’s features immediately dropped wide. His eyeballs popped, his mouth parted, he blinked slowly. “ _What?_ ”

“Yeah,” Enjolras couldn’t stop beaming, “I couldn’t believe it either!”

“What the hell are you doing here then?” Combeferre pushed at Enjolras’ forearm, “Isn’t this better than you could have dreamed? Your opera opening was a smash hit, and your opera boy is _in love_ with you? Why are you not with him?”

“I don’t know!” Enjolras said, hand to his chest, feeling the fluttering beneath his breastbone. “I was about to go.”

“Go _now_ , and don’t come back until rehearsal tomorrow! _Go!_ ”

 

Enjolras did not need telling twice. He dashed through the Parisian streets, hopping on the familiar route on the Subway. While the train rumbled through Paris’ underground system, Enjolras noticed a thousand things he would never usually notice - a child’s bright laughter, the cadence rolling through a C major key, a lady’s bright scarlet hat, a puppy curled next to someone’s boots, a couple linked together like speech marks, breathing together, hearts beating together. It was hard not to cry at the beauty of it all.

Grantaire opened the door, eyes filled with hope, hair tousled, shirt half-buttoned, bare-footed - and Enjolras found it hard not to cry at the beauty of him, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short n sweeeet.  
> can't stop thinking about how victor hugo is like "Grantaire was UGLY. The UGLIEST man alive. HE WAS SO UGLY. U-G-L-Y." and I'm like "GRANTAIRE WAS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL THING THAT ENJOLRAS HAD EVER SEEN IN HIS ENTIRE LIFE, HE MELTS UNDER HIS BEAUTY, IT PAINS HIM TO LOOK AT HOW GORGEOUS GRANTAIRE IS." soz Victor Hugo but I'm different. 
> 
> lolll anyway thanks for reading! I know I said like 12 chapters ago this was nearly finished, but just added in a whole subplot, so yeah... that was a LIE.
> 
> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING AND ALL OF THE COMMENTS! Honestly every comment I read makes me sooooooooooo happy, they stick in my mind all day - I cry at the beauty of you all! To have written anything that makes you want to say even the smallest nice thing makes me overjoyed, feelin so blessed! aaahh okay the gushing is over but y'all are wonderful and without a doubt I have beamed at every comment ever left on this fic! they inspire me so much to keep writing!
> 
> like always let me know your thoughts - next chapter is a spicy one- teehee!


	26. Upbeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amidst the symphony of Enjolras and Grantaire, there are revelations and secrets to be uncovered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lil tw warning once again, some super not-explicit lovin' goes on in this chapter, just a heads up if that ain't your thing!

A slow, feathery orchestral record spun on Grantaire’s player. Rachmaninoff’s second Piano Concerto played, grainy and crackled - the adagio sostenuto, to be precise.

 

Grantaire’s room was lit by a moonbeam piercing through a crack in his blinds. His guitar lay, abandoned, on his bed. On the night stand, a small glass of sunshine-coloured whiskey grew weak with ice.

 

“Sorry it’s a bit of a mess,” Grantaire said, self-consciously rearranging his rail of clothes.

“I don’t mind,” Enjolras said, sinking into Grantaire’s bed. “Wow.”

Grantaire looked up at him and smiled, “Wow, indeed, Enjolras. The opera you’ve been working on for so long has finally come to fruition. You must be so happy.”

Enjolras cut his eyes away to a spot on the wall.

“What?” Grantaire asked, slinking out of his jumper. “Are you not happy?”

“No, of course I am,” Enjolras made a face. There would be no coming back from this. “Okay, I have to tell you the truth…”

Grantaire squinted and lurched back. “ _What?”_ he said, thoroughly suspicious.

“Okay… I don’t know how to say this… You remember when I asked you to be part of the opera…?”

Grantaire nodded slowly, eyes dancing over Enjolras’ features.

“ _Well_ …” Enjolras drew the vowel out for as long as it could last, “I may have _slightly_ exaggerated how developed it was…”

“What?”

Enjolras confronted himself, shaking his head and sighing. “Okay, no. Basically, there was _no_ opera until I saw you performing… And then I kind of panicked, and said I was writing an opera, and then… I guess I wrote it…?”

“Wait… _what?”_ Grantaire’s face was scrunched in confusion. “You hadn’t written anything before we met?”

Enjolras hid his face in his hands. “No,” he groaned. “It’s ridiculous, I _know _.__ Just seeing you perform made me think that I had to work with you, and for some reason writing a whole opera seemed like the best option… I don’t know, Grantaire… I’m so embarrassed.”

Grantaire tilted his head, the expression of bewilderment melting away. Slowly, softly, a laugh crept out of his chest. “Enjolras,” he said, “You are the most amazing, most ridiculous, most wonderful person I’ve ever met. You wrote and staged an opera in six months because… because you wanted to work with me?” He slunk forwards, crawling onto Enjolras’ lap, forcing them both to lean back against the soft plush of his bed.

“Something like that…”

Grantaire laughed so hard his body shook, his head drooping down onto Enjolras’ shoulder. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so flattered in my entire life… But you were right to wait until now to tell me… you would have freaked me the hell out if you said that a few months ago.” He placed the most scalding of kisses against the column of Enjolras’ throat. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, midnight-personified. “You wrote Dionysus for me?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said, “You’re my muse.”

Grantaire laughed silkily, his body-weight suddenly heavy on Enjolras, his lips so close, curving like a crescent moon. “Has anyone ever told you how astonishing you are?”

“I love you,” Enjolras said it like a revelation, and it hit Grantaire like a bullet wound. He flinched, not believing the words were coming from Enjolras’ lips again. Then he smiled, and uttered the same words back. They fell together like crashing waves, a blur of flurrying hands on buttons, and heavy breath.

 

Their fingers linked, lock-tight. The lights were low, hazy, casting a glow over the two lovers’ faces. Their eyes sparkled with a thousand stars and burned with the intensity of a million potentially hazardous asteroids. They exchanged kisses like gifts: sometimes tentatively and shy, others excitedly bold.

Though the weight and expectation of the opera had been heavy on their shoulders, building in magnitude, it spiralled away in wisps of smoke.

Grantaire slid a hand into Enjolras’ hair, their foreheads pressing together, their breath hot on one another’s cheeks. Enjolras felt warm and safe and content, and a hundred other things he never allowed himself to feel. Their chests rose together like the swell of a violin solo. Grantaire’s weight on him, grounding, tethered Enjolras to the moment - he longed for the closeness of it all forever.

Liquid heat scalded through his veins.

“I love you,” Grantaire said, countless times, as though casting a spell. It wasn’t just his voice that spoke the words, but also the soft brush of his knuckles against Enjolras’ cheeks, the slow, sweet sting of his nails down Enjolras’ back, the velveteen, tender kisses he placed on Enjolras’ palm, his cheekbone, his collarbone - all of his actions shouted the sentiment loud and clear. His large, steady hands tracked down each of Enjolras’ ribs, settled on his hip, so warm and gentle that Enjolras wanted to melt.

As Rachmaninoff played in the background, the lovers wove in and out of each other’s souls, a countermelody of one another: Grantaire almost glowing, ebullient, a cello line of yearning, lust and joy, Enjolras more dynamic, an accompaniment to Grantaire’s movement, a rich, piano timbre playing in perfect harmony.

Grantaire was the altar Enjolras longed to pray at, to bend his neck and worship to. His rough edges were the rock that Enjolras clung to in the swirling depths of his mind. His hands felt nothing less than divine, pulling at Enjolras’ curls, slipping over his skin like satin.

Enjolras’ breath caught at the back of his throat, stars burst behind his eyelids, music blared richer than ever in his brain. Their kisses grew rougher, messier, until they could barely kiss at all, just breathe, an orchestra of soft, keening sounds playing from their lips.

Grantaire threw his head back, hair rolling down across his shoulders like spilled oil, his eyes falling shut, mouth dropping open - Enjolras’ heart had never beat faster. Grantaire’s olive, brown skin burnished Enjolras’ whole vision golden - the orchestra, opera, his future slid far from thought, all he could picture was the honeyed bliss dousing them both.

 

Afterwards, they lay, breaths coming heavy and fast. Grantaire nuzzled his nose in the spot between clavicle and jaw, his lips, bruised red, relaxed against Enjolras’ skin. Enjolras linked his fingers into Grantaire’s, pulling their palms to his mouth, grazing the softest of kisses across knuckles and fingertips.

“Oh my God,” Grantaire said, his eyes glinting under the electric lights like copper, “I’ve never felt like this before.”

“Me neither,” Enjolras said, entangled in the warmth and weight of their entwined limbs. He glanced down, shocked to see a tear track whispering down Grantaire’s cheek. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?” A streak of scratches lingered, pink on his back.

Grantaire laughed, “Oh, Enjolras,” he smiled, “Do you think I can’t handle a bit of scratching?” he scuffed his palm against the tears, cheeks split in joy, “I’m just so _happy_.” He slung an arm over Enjolras’ chest. Enjolras traced the loops and sharp lines of his tattoos.

“Me too,” he smiled sleepily. “I want to stay like this forever.”

 

And so they did.

 

At least, they did until the next morning, when Enjolras’ phone jangled noisily, still in his coat pocket, halfway across the room. Grantaire groaned and rolled over, burrowing deeper into the starch whiteness of his pillow.

Enjolras retreated to silence the obnoxiously loud Mozart ringtone, shivering in the cold and returning to Grantaire’s side. The number was unknown.

“Hello?” he answered, voice crackled with sleep.

“Enjolras?” came a familiar tone, Enjolras squinted, “Hi. It’s Bahorel. I… I used to be in your orchestra…?”

“Yeah… I remember… Um… hi?”

“Hi,” Bahorel sounded urgent, “I know this is out of the blue. Basically I overheard some people from some symphony orchestra, or whatever, last night. They were talking about your opera… I think they’re going to try and get you to sell the rights to them…”

“ _What?”_ Enjolras sat jolt upright, “They want to buy my opera?” Grantaire stirred, peering at Enjolras through tired eyes.

“Yeah, but don’t get excited. They’re going to try and scam you down to the lowest price, because you’re young, and inexperienced. They’ll be after a one time flat-fee - you’d never see a cent of royalties. Look,” Bahorel cleared his throat, “I’m _kind of_ a music lawyer. Well... Not exactly, I never graduated, but I did it for like eleven years… It’s a long story, but I just wanted to warn you not to sign anything, and if you need my help, I can read any contracts for you…”

“Huh?” Enjolras’ mind was working ten times slower than usual.

“You don’t deserve to be screwed over by these companies. Keep the rights to your opera. Ring me if you have any questions. I just wanted to warn you… Look, I’ve got to run, but just _do not sign anything._ Tell Combeferre, too. _”_

“Okay,” Enjolras blinked, “Thanks for the warning…?”

“Catch up later, man. Bye.” The phone line beeped in Enjolras’ ear.

He stared at it for a moment, as though it would start talking again.

“What?” he said numbly.

“What?” Grantaire echoed, curling a scalding hot palm around Enjolras’ wrist, “Did you say someone wanted to _buy the opera?_ ”

“I don’t know,” Enjolras stretched out, the warmth of the moment so desirable to stay in. He knew he had to break it. “Someone I know, Bahorel…”

“I know Bahorel,” Grantaire said, arching his back like a cat.

“Well, apparently he overheard some people talking about it. He said I shouldn’t sign anything. I don’t know,” Enjolras shook his head, “I need to speak to ‘Ferre.”

Grantaire kissed his chest softly. “You should,” he agreed, tracing a path down to Enjolras’ hip bones, nipping at a particularly sensitive spot. “But does it need to be right now?” He beamed, "With such wonderful news, can't you think of some  _other_ way to celebrate?"

Enjolras gasped, “You’re terrible, Grantaire.”

Grantaire smiled, blissful. "If anyone is capable of being terrible, surely it is you... Just the mere sight of you makes me think the most _wicked_ of thoughts," he teased, grazing his teeth against the soft velour of Enjolras' skin, making him shudder. “We’ll be quick,” Grantaire smiled innocently, waves of dark hair draping over his face, “I’m _very_ good.”

Blood rushed to Enjolras’ face, and elsewhere. Who was he to turn down something so enticing?

“Okay,” he said evenly, “But quickly.”

Grantaire gave a wink, salacious. “Don’t worry,” he said, breath warm on Enjolras’ thighs, “And, Enjolras?”

“Mm?” Enjolras said, already beginning to squirm.

Grantaire’s eyes were dangerous. “Scratch as much as you like.”

~*~

 

Enjolras rushed back to his apartment, ready to collect his work for the next day. Combeferre would likely be fretting about rehearsal times, with just twelve hours or so until the next performance.

He slotted his key into the lock, swinging the door open.

“Aah!” he yelped, catching sight of Courfeyrac’s bare back, and a pair of  someone else’s hands tucked into his back pockets, on the _very_ communal sofa.

 

“Oh,” Courfeyrac said mildly, turning around to face Enjolras. He smiled with poppy-red lips. “Hey, Enj.”

“I thought this couch was _communal _,__ ” Enjolras snarked, wanting to flee to his room before facing the awkward interaction with whoever was currently beneath his friend.

“Don’t act like you and Grantaire haven’t made out on this couch,” Courf rolled his eyes, “And it _is_ communal. That’s why we’re communally making out on it. Join us, if you’re that bothered.”

“ _Courfeyrac! _”__ Enjolras said sharply, at the very same time an incredibly familiar voice did the same.

Enjolras peered behind Courfeyrac’s fluff of bed-head hair. A pair of dark eyes stared out through wire-framed glasses, guilty as sin.

 

“ _What the hell? _”__ Enjolras gaped.

“Hi, Enjolras,” Combeferre said, clearing his throat.

“Surprise!” Courfeyrac did jazz-hands, “So… are we doing this? Come on, Enj…We’re down, aren’t we, ‘Ferre?”

Enjolras’ mouth hung open.

“Shut up, Courfeyrac!” Combeferre hissed, pushing Courf away with a sigh, straightening his shirt, dusting his hands down.  His collar was rumpled, the planes of his dark chest rising and falling beneath open buttons. His legs splayed and there were imprints on his jeans where Courfeyrac’s thighs had rested. “ _Not now_.”

This was the very same Combeferre that preferred to wear matching pinstriped pyjamas, as he felt they were more esteemed, and slept with them buttoned to the neck. The same Combeferre who frequently complained when Courfeyrac recounted his exploits, and Enjolras despaired about Grantaire, that sex was just a distraction from their true purpose in life: music. The _one and only_ Combeferre who created the communal couch rule in the first place!

“How long has this been going on?” Enjolras stuttered, mouth ajar.

“Months,” Courf said, a slight slur to his words. “We were seeing how long it would take you to figure it out.”

Courfeyrac sat with a smug smile dancing on his pretty lips, his eyes alight with mischief. He sat on the communal couch with all the satisfaction of a king. Enjolras should not have hoped for a different reaction from Courfeyrac, so he turned his attention back to Combeferre.

Enjolras narrowed his eyes, a fire blazing within. “ _What?_ ”

Combeferre, his cheeks dark, added, “You have been a _bit_ oblivious, Enj.” He coughed. “It’s not a big deal, though. It’s casual.”

Courfeyrac laughed and swayed on his heels, slumping deeper into the cushions, “Yeah, Enjolras knows _all_ about that, don’t you, darling?”

“Not anymore,” Enjolras said tightly, arms crossed.

“Oh,” Combeferre’s expression broke, “Are you alright?”

“ _He broke up with you?_ ” Courfeyrac wailed, suddenly sobered.

“No,” Enjolras interrupted, half wanting to fall on the couch to gossip, and half wanting to stalk to his room in contempt of the lies and deceit. “We actually confessed our love.” He composed the perfect response in his head. “Because we were being honest and open with each other. _Unlike you… I can’t believe you lied to me!”_

“We didn’t _lie_ ,” Combeferre said, his eyes filled with pain.

“More like, we danced around the truth, a little,” Courfeyrac added, pulling his puppy-eyed sadness out of his emotional repertoire. “You never asked!”

 

“Hmph,” huffed Enjolras. He heaved a sigh. “Well, I can’t say I’m not a little disappointed with you for not telling me,” he said, morose. “I thought we were best friends, who told each other _everything _…”__

“ _Noooooooo_ ,” Courf groaned, clutching a hand to his heart, “That hurts so much to hear. Enjolras, my love, my darling! The sunshine of my life! I never wanted to disappoint you! Of course we’re best friends!”

“I’m sorry,” Combeferre said, biting at his cuticle. “I really am, Enjolras. We should have told you.”

“We’re the worst!”

Enjolras uncrossed his arms. “You’re not _the_ worst.. but you should have told me! I’ve been talking non-stop about _my_ situation… You’ve really kept me in the dark!”

Courfeyrac began to laugh, the movement shaking the whole couch. “I love you so much, babe… but you are _so_ dumb, Enjolras,” he giggled, “Like you’re a genius… but an idiot genius…You walked in on me _handcuffed_ to Combeferre’s bed like a month ago.”

“You said he handcuffed you because he was forcing you to listen to his dissertation!” Enjolras protested, suddenly flushing at his idiocy. “That sounds like something Combeferre would do!”

Combeferre hid his face.

 

“I should have realised,” Enjolras frowned, thinking of the million times the pair ‘worked on the dissertation’ together. “No way would you be so interested in school work,” he said to Courfeyrac.

“I never was,” he grinned back, “I’ve barely started, and everything is due in a month! I've scheduled a mental breakdown in,” he checked an invisible watch, "Next week."

“Hmph,” Enjolras sniffed again, “Well. I love you too much to be mad. I’m happy if you both are.”

“We are,” Courfeyrac said.

“We are,” Combeferre echoed with a dopey smile.

“Fine,” Enjolras said, “Well, I hate to cut this little _session_ short, but we seem to have bigger issues on our hands. I think someone’s trying to buy our opera.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woAAAAAAAAH PLOT TWIST
> 
> course I was gonna have a lil c/c cameo, and an clueless!enj cameo tooooo! 
> 
> yeaaahh happy that my boys are so happy though I just want to write them softly, sweetly, gorgeously in loveeee forever! they deserve every MOMENT of heart-eyed joy..... question: will I run out of musical metaphors any time soon? answer: it is UNLIKELY... I could make these badboys last another fifty chapters lol. 
> 
> ANYWAY thoughts? I love hearing em! Cannot express enough how wonderful every comment makes me feel, it truly makes me feel incredibly joyous and inspired! (and since I'm taking on nanowrimo this month I NEED ALL THE INSPO I CAN GET!) Thanks for all your sweeeeeeet comments, they are little hugs through the screen! we should play guess the lame les mis references scattered in this chapter ---- if there's ever a line about being shot, or about e/r being hand in hand, it is 10000% intentional, ya get me?
> 
> WOAH someone wants to buy the opera?! what comes next?! (don't ask me lol) THANKS FOR READING! ILSYM


	27. Motif

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and Combeferre meet with the Paris Opera - their opera appears to be growing far bigger than them. A thousand questions are created, and at the centre, it always seems to be Grantaire.

For the rest of the day, Enjolras was fending off dozens of calls from unknown numbers, slipping out of classes to schedule in meetings with high-up members of orchestras.

Valjean, who had seen him sneak from the classroom no less than four times, called him back at the end of their lesson.

“Enjolras,” he said with a smile, “You must be on top of the world, right now.”

“Thank you, sir,” he retorted, ignoring the buzzing of his phone.

“Though, I do have to say… it wasn’t very responsible of you to cast someone who isn’t a student of this school…”

Enjolras froze. “I know,” he said, wincing, “But we were desperate… and Feuilly is so wonderful, it felt a waste _not_ to cast him.”

Valjean arched an eyebrow, “Yes,” he said, “Well, I’m of the same sentiment as you, but the Board might not be best pleased.”

“He was incredible though, wasn’t he?”

Valjean paused diplomatically before saying, “Yes, he’s a very talented young man.”

“And is that not the morals of Saint-Michel?” fought Enjolras, “To give a platform to talented musicians? I stand behind my decision.”

Valjean laughed. “I look forward to the next Board meeting if that’s the argument on the table. Anyway, I wanted to congratulate you. I stand behind my decision, too. You were right to focus on the opera.”  

Enjolras swelled with pride. Valjean’s lips wavered with a flicker of pride. He nodded, fatherly - although Enjolras’ own father had never looked at him with such warmth. “I know,” Enjolras said, “Thank you. This opera has been one of the most incredible experiences of my life. You helped make it a reality.”

Valjean shook Enjolras’ hand firmly. “Good man,” he said. “You best not be late to your next lesson. Though I suppose your education doesn’t seem to matter much, right now. It seems like every orchestra in Europe is longing for you to join them.”

Enjolras half-heartedly glanced at his phone, with six missed calls. “It feels a bit like that.”

“My office is always open to you if you need a chat,” Valjean said, with the tone of a teacher that had seen his student experience a breakdown before. Enjolras tried not to cringe. “Quick, quick, now. I’m a busy man too, you know. See you this evening, Enjolras.”

~*~

“What are you two muttering about?” Jehan said, sliding into a seat next to Enjolras and Combeferre.

“The opera,” they replied in unison.

“Should have guessed,” Jehan stretched out, crossing their legs. “What’s the deal? I thought it went stupendously.”

Enjolras scratched a hand across his tired eyes. “Yeah. So did everyone else, apparently. I’ve been getting calls all day from people trying to acquire the rights, or invite me for auditions, and whatever. I don’t know what to do.”

“On the one hand,” Combeferre said steadily, “Keeping the rights would be great, because we’d keep artistic control… We’d grow with the project. _But_ … at the end of the day, we did write it in like a few months, and who knows where we’ll be soon. Are we going to have time to commit to the project to bring it to more audiences? If we sold it now, we’d get paid out and they could take it off our hands.”

Enjolras frowned. “I don’t want people to ‘take it off our hands.’ We should keep it.”

“Yeah,” Jehan said, “You should definitely keep it, my darlings. It’s part of who you are, isn’t it? When I was sixteen I sold this poetry book to a publishers, but they did absolutely nothing with it, and I still can’t use those poems for myself now. I know the universe designed it so my work would get better, but honestly guys, selling out isn’t worth it for anything.”

“Enj,” Combeferre said softly, “I know _you_ don’t need the money we could get… but… it would make a massive difference to me.”

Enjolras winced. “I know,” he said, a frown taking residence on his forehead, “But we could make more by producing it ourselves. I don’t want to let go of it.”

“We could be passing up an amazing opportunity,” Combeferre itched the ridge on his nose where his glasses lay.

“It’s too special to sell,” Enjolras took a breath, “Trust me. We shouldn’t sell it.”

Combeferre gave a sigh, nodding, his eyes weary. “Okay. I trust you.” He fixed Enjolras with a stare. “Don’t make a hasty decision just because of Grantaire’s involvement in this…”

“I’m not,” Enjolras said, “I promise.”

“Well then, we’d better be selling out these shows. Once my student loan runs out I’m screwed.”

~*~

 

For the rest of the day, Enjolras could barely concentrate on anything in his lessons - he doodled in the margins of his notebook, took notes too vague to ever comprehend, and stared from the window, shocked that spring had come all at once without his noticing.

Classes ended which signalled the start of rehearsals with Combeferre. Enjolras realised he hadn't eaten for over 24 hours, grabbed a vegan protein bar from the vending machines and wolfed it down before sitting at the grand piano in the auditorium.

Halfway through a run-through of a particularly complex section of the Greek Chorus’ second ensemble piece, there was a knock at the door.

 

An older man, dressed pristinely, with a briefcase in hand, entered.

Combeferre stopped playing at once, the piano notes sustained in the air for a moment before the silence.

“Good afternoon, can we help you?” Enjolras said, irritated by the distraction.

“Are you the composers of the opera, Dionysus?”

Enjolras and Combeferre exchanged a glance. “Yes,” Combeferre said, stepping up from the piano and extending a hand, “I’m Combeferre. This is Enjolras.”

“Yes, yes,” said the man, “I’m Monsieur Gillenormand. I’m the Artistic Director of the Paris Opera.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Enjolras said, straightening his back. “What can we do for you? We’re just in the middle of rehearsals.”

“I’ll keep it to the point,” Gillenormand said, “I was in the audience last night, and I was very impressed with what I saw… Definite room for improvement - I thought there was a hint too much Dionysus worship - it felt a little self-gratuitous at times…”

Enjolras looked at his notes, avoiding Combeferre’s eye.

“But rather good, indeed,” Gillenormand continued. “I spoke to my colleagues this afternoon, and we’d be thrilled to develop the piece ourselves…”

“Would we keep the rights?” Enjolras asked.

“It depends what you’re willing to sign,” Gillenormand said. “I know you’ve probably had a dozen requests to sign away things without really knowing what you’re signing, but we appreciate the talent of two young Parisians… We’re not out to steal your intellectual property. The biggest likelihood would be that we recast and start from scratch with our own costume, set and props team. You’d remain on the creative team, but there would be producers and directors who could go over your head, if needs be.”

“You wouldn’t keep some of the same cast?” Enjolras bit the inside of his cheek.

“You have to understand,” the man said reasonably, “Your cast, although they are bright young things, are still college students. We could cast from a pool of the most talented opera singers in France. They would be welcome to audition, but it would be a casting director’s decision, at the end of the day.”

“Can we discuss this with our lawyer and get back to you?” Enjolras said boldly, ignoring Combeferre’s bewildered expression.

Gillenormand sat back and nodded with a smile. “Of course. It’s a big decision. Take my card and ring me when you’ve had chance to think it over.”

Enjolras took the glossy card and tucked it into his jacket pocket.

“Good luck with this evening’s performance, gentlemen,” Gillenormand said, standing sharply, shaking their hands again, and leaving.

“ _What?_ ” Combeferre said as soon as the doors clunked shut, “What lawyer?”

Enjolras explained Bahorel’s offer to help.

“Then let’s call him tomorrow,” Combeferre said, “Or tonight. Isn’t this everything we were hoping for?”

Enjolras cleared his throat and remained fixated by the sheet music. “I don’t know…” he said, hesitant.

“ _What?”_ Combeferre crossed his arms, “Are you kidding? That’s the best deal we’d ever get… What’s your problem?”

“I just… I just think it would be nice if we continued with the original cast… They’ve all dedicated so much of their life to help us, it’s surely a little callous to recast them all…”

“Is this about Grantaire?”

“No!”

“Enjolras…”

“Okay, it kind of is.” Enjolras scratched the nape of his neck. “I sort of asked him to be Dionysus in the future, and he seemed so happy about it. I really don’t want to disappoint him…”

“Enjolras,” Combeferre raised an eyebrow, “You had no right to make those sort of promises.” His tone was stern and unbending. Enjolras felt a flare of shame.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “You’re right. I got… a bit carried away.”

“Well, you’ll have to tell him otherwise.”

“No, but ‘Ferre. How wonderful would it be to give a platform to the people who have put so much into this project? I think we should fight to keep the cast the same.”

Combeferre considered this, scratching his pen lid across his brow. A soft sigh exhaled from his chest. “Okay. You _are_ right. Our cast has put up with hellish last minute, rushed rehearsals from us… it would be nice to involve them… Feuilly, Cosette, and, _yes…_ Grantaire especially.” He glanced at his silver watch, sucking air through his teeth. “Ugh. Well, everyone is going to be here soon…”

“I’ll speak with Bahorel. I’ll get us a meeting with him tomorrow,” Enjolras said, stretching out the tender muscles in his shoulders and neck. “It kind of feels a lot bigger than us… doesn’t it?”

Combeferre nodded, reaching over to massage a knot out of Enjolras’ back. “Just six more shows.”

“I feel like I’ve been ran over by a bus already.”

Combeferre huffed a laugh, flexing his fingers. “Well, let’s go for round two with the bus… We seriously _have_ to rehearse this passage before everyone gets here.”

The two shared a smile, and fell all at once into the music.

~*~

That evening was a complete blur of faces, bright lights and all the errors that Enjolras had been too drenched in bliss to see the night before.

Some of his younger violin players were getting lazy, not playing with the knife-edge precision that Enjolras demanded. His actions grew larger, fiercer, herding them into perfection.  

Grantaire entered just as resplendent as ever, completely drawing the attention away from the tired sounding strings. Enjolras smiled, exhaled for what felt like the first time that evening, and danced his way through conducting. The music and him waltzed together, palm in palm, Enjolras taking the lead, guiding the music through elaborate spins, lifting it in his hands, pulling it close, then letting it go. It was a dance he was well-versed in. Equally as well-versed was Grantaire. Onstage, he lived Dionysus’ story, crawling through the traumas and twirling through the revelry. The line between Grantaire and God blurred.

Cosette had blossomed even further into the role, playing Ariadne with more nuanced snapshots of light and dark, reflected in the brightness of her tone, contrasted with the heavy looks in her eyes. When she kissed Grantaire, she drew away so feather-light, she looked to be floating. Her presence, as one of the few mortals, was otherworldly - from the smallest, tenderest coil of her wrist and fingers, to the momentous intention that lay behind every footstep, every movement and note.

Enjolras glanced over to Marius, who luckily had nothing to play when Cosette sung her parts in the lover’s duet. He gazed moonily as though she held the sun in her palms. Enjolras turned back to the stage with a shake of his head, trying to push down the inexplicable fondness that seemed to grow every day for Marius.

 His mind blanked out of the rest of the evening, sparing only a few viciously bright moments: the standing ovation, the trail of compliments that waited for him in the wings, the photographer who snapped pictures of Combeferre and him, arm in arm, the aftershock of the camera light still blaring in his eyes. He felt dizzy - exhausted, dehydrated. The crowd of well-meaning audience members kept grabbing his arm, showering praise and kisses on the cheeks. He did the only thing he could: smiled his showman’s smile, shaking hands, complimenting outfits, accepting the praise graciously, over-the-top, faux-hungering for them like a baby bird.

Out in the smoking area, far too many audience members mingled with the orchestra, all deprived of their vices for a couple of hours. Enjolras just wanted to collapse into bed, craving sleep before the emotional drain of repeating the laying of his heart onstage was scheduled again.

 

Under a street lamp, casting a far warmer glow than a stage light, he caught Grantaire’s hand.

“You alright?” Grantaire asked, painted golden, sunset orange.

“Wonderful,” Enjolras said tiredly, “Just a little exhausted.”

Grantaire’s face dropped and he cupped Enjolras’ cheek. “I’m not surprised. Do you want to come back to mine?”

“I…” Enjolras thought about how deeply he longed to, but also how little he would sleep if they did go back together. It was not just the act of sleeping together that would cause a lack of sleep, but the silent marvelling Enjolras was kept awake by when he lay next to Grantaire, the quietly mumbled conversations that Grantaire spun throughout the night, lilting and swaying like music. “I shouldn’t. I’m sorry, I should go home.”

“Don’t apologise,” Grantaire smiled, running a cold thumb across Enjolras’ cheek, “Don’t apologise for putting yourself first. Go home. Rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Enjolras softened under Grantaire’s touch. “Okay. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Grantaire agreed, leaning close so their lips brushed softly. “I’m excited to see you again already.”

They parted, Grantaire strolling back to the smoking area, his laughter volleying around his well-wishers, echoing numbly in the back of Enjolras’ mind as he walked through the back streets of Paris.

That night, sleep crashed into him like a train, but despite the spring mildness, Enjolras felt oddly cold without Grantaire beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow did I write an ACTUAL plot point and NOT just Enjolras being completely lovestruck about Grantaire? Could it be true? Tune in soon to see if it lasts lol
> 
> Thanks for reading!! Let me know your thoughts! Your comments make me feeeeeeeeel alive! so grateful!


	28. Diminuendo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Grantaire shows up to rehearsal with the flu, the opera seems to be doomed. Cancelling the show is impossible - so what is Enjolras to do when Grantaire is too ill to speak, let alone sing a three-hour long opera?

The next few days rolled about in a similar fashion. Intense highs amidst utter exhaustion. Few hours of sleep mixed with long hours waking. On the fourth show, Grantaire showed up to rehearsal with a sore throat, and by the next morning he had almost no voice at all.

He showed up at Enjolras’ apartment uncharacteristically early, bundled in an enormous scarf.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras said, cracking open the door, his shirt half-buttoned.

Grantaire pulled down his scarf, and Enjolras tried not to flinch. The skin around his nose was raw, red, the circles beneath his eyes were stark, he breathed with a soft, crackly wheeze.

“I’m so sorry,” he tried to say, but his voice was a whisper of its usual self.

“Don’t talk,” Enjolras demanded, bundling him into the apartment and sitting him on the sofa. He flicked on the kettle, gathered all the blankets he could find, and returned to Grantaire with a fresh lemon and honey tea - filled to the brim with raw ginger and garlic.

Grantaire drank it without even wincing.

“Take the day off uni,” Enjolras said, “I’ll stay with you and heal you up before the performance.”

Grantaire nodded mutely, eyes flicking away.

“You’ll be fine for the performance,” Enjolras urged, “Of course you will. You’re a pro.” He squeezed Grantaire’s clammed palm, barely believing the paper-thin nature of his words.

 

A little while later, when Grantaire was sleeping feverishly in Enjolras’ bed, Enjolras retreated to Combeferre’s room for a frantic, whispered discussion.

“What the hell are we going to do?” he said, tone hushed. “We’re absolutely ruined if he can’t perform tonight.”

“We should have got an understudy…”

“Combeferre,” Enjolras said, eyes deadened, “You aren’t helping! It’s too late for that now. I repeat: _what the hell are we going to do?”_

“Either he performs, or he can’t.”

“And if he can’t?”

“We cancel or somehow find someone who can cover his part…” Combeferre bit his lip and then sat straight upright. “ _Someone who can cover his part!_ Enjolras, you know Dionysus’ part like the back of your hand!”

“No, absolutely not,” Enjolras folded his arms, “I’d rather cancel the whole night than make the audience sit through three hours of me butchering our own opera. I can’t sing, act or dance… I might know the words, but it isn’t enough, ‘Ferre… you _know_ that.”

Combeferre sighed. “I’m just trying to throw ideas out, here. We can’t cancel, we’ve fully sold-out all the tickets. And those tickets sold were going towards a salary for the cast and crew… It’s unethical to cancel.”

“Ugh,” Enjolras leant against the wall in frustration. “We’re doomed.”

“Let’s just focus on curing Grantaire in any way we can. And if we can’t…get ready to put on your toga and ivy leaf crown…”

“Combeferre I literally _cannot_ play Dionysus.”

“Find a magical cure for Grantaire then…” Combeferre frowned, “Look, I’m not saying you as Dionysus would be the best option, by any means. I can’t sing a note, and no-one else knows the piano part well enough to take my role, not even you. Courf could step up to conduct, the other flutes should be able to carry the flute part by themselves, and you aren’t _that_ awful. You’ve sung through all the songs a thousand times. You can carry the tune well enough.”

Enjolras blinked in response, sending a prayer to any God that may happen to exist, that Grantaire would get better.

 

The whole day passed in a flurry of oranges, teas, and silence. Grantaire stuffily inhaled steam from a large bowl infused with peppermint oil.

“How are you feeling?” Enjolras asked, fussing over his forehead with a damp flannel.

Grantaire lifted a shoulder in a shrug and rubbed a hand against his throat.

“I really _hope_ you are alright to perform tonight…” A burst of anxiety sent stars shooting behind Enjolras’ eyelids, “If you aren’t… ‘Ferre seems to think it would make sense for _me_ to go on as Dionysus.”

Grantaire whipped his head up from the bowl, moving so quickly he triggered a ricochet of coughing. _“What?”_ he mouthed.

“Yeah. So I kind of want to die. But, no pressure on you, or anything,” Enjolras groaned, “This is awful.”

Grantaire grabbed his phone and began to type, turning the screen to Enjolras.

_‘I’ll be fine,’_ it read, _‘I’ll stay on vocal rest until a couple of hours before we start, get the adrenaline up and sing thru it… I’ve done this before.’_

“Get the adrenaline up? How?”

Grantaire typed away.

_‘Go for a run… drink a pack of energy drinks, tiny bit of whiskey to soothe the vocal folds (it really works I SWEAR)  y’know… wouldn’t make u perform as d…lol… thank u enj, I appreciate the concern… I swear I’ll be alright.’_

Enjolras swept a coil of dampened hair off Grantaire’s forehead and smiled weakly.

“I’ll make you another tea,” he grimaced.

 

By the time two in the afternoon rolled around, Combeferre and Enjolras peered through at the sleeping Grantaire. They shared a wide-eyed wince.

“We’ve gotta go, Enj,” Combeferre whispered. “We’re on in five hours. Let’s get to Saint-Michel’s and decide what to do.”

Enjolras sat on the edge of the sofa, cupping Grantaire’s warm cheek. “R,” he said softly, watching his eyelids flutter like moth wings. “Grantaire. Me and ‘Ferre have got to practice at school. We’ll come back here for six, and see if you’re up for it. I’ll leave you a water and a ginger tea just here… If you need anything, call me.”

Grantaire smiled a waver of a smile, nodding and sinking back to sleep.

As soon as they were on the street, speed-walking towards their university, Enjolras cursed to the air.

“Enjolras!” Combeferre said, aghast. “Calm down. We’ll just have to do our best.”

“Easy for you to say, Combeferre. It isn’t you who has to become the leading man for an opera, without a day’s training.” He clutched his forehead, “I’m going to die. I seriously am going to die!”

 

He echoed the sentiment all the way through the streets of Paris, the corridors of Saint-Michel’s, and all the way backstage.

“Combeferre!” he shouted from the wings, “We _have_ to cancel! There’s no way I can do this!”

“Enjolras,” Combeferre yelled back from the piano, “Shut up and get ready for your entrance.”

He tried to saunter onstage, in feeble imitation of Grantaire’s godly stroll. The cue for his first line came, a jumbled, croaked note flopped from his lips.

“No, no, no,” he said, frowning at Combeferre, “No way! There is no way I can perform this tonight.”

“Jesus Christ, Enjolras! Will you quit the insufferable behaviour. We’re all equally screwed. Just try a single run-through and we’ll reassess after. Anyway, you sounded a thousand times better in warm ups, so you’re just nervous.”

“Yeah, I am nervous! And I’ll be twenty billion times more nervous in front of a full auditorium. I am _not_ a trained opera singer, Combeferre!”

“Yeah, I can tell. You’ve sung half a note, and complained for about fifty minutes. Get offstage and do your entrance again… Now!”

Enjolras groaned and retreated into the wings.

 

His second entrance was a little less stiff, a little less garbled, he managed the first song without too many mistakes. He glanced to Combeferre for a hint of encouragement. Combeferre grimaced at the piano, nose scrunched in disgust.

“What the hell is that look?” Enjolras said.

“What?” Combeferre looked up, expression dripping off his face, “Hey, stop breaking character!”

“You look like you’re going to be sick.”

Combeferre rolled his eyes. “Where has your focus and conductory-ness gone? I feel like I’m directing an infant… _Woah… this is what it feels like to be you…”_

Enjolras scowled. “I think I’m acting in a perfectly reasonable way, considering the situation. Play the second song then.”

They ran through the Dionysus solos - to Enjolras’ surprise, he managed to remember all the words. Combeferre continued to look vaguely nauseous, Enjolras felt overtly sick, and they had not even begun to factor in duets, dances or a singular emotion.

 

Cosette bounced into the auditorium, ditching her bag on one of the hundreds of chairs. She skipped up the steps to the stage, eyeing Enjolras somewhat warily.

“This is going to be… fun…” she said with a overwhelmingly bright smile.

At least _she_ could act, Enjolras thought.

 

“Okay,” Combeferre said, his hair sticking up from where he had clutched at it all afternoon, “Let’s go from Cosette’s entrance.

Cosette entered, lingering at the edge of the stage like a shadow of a dream. She looked up, her eyes filled with wonder and a spark of joy. Enjolras smiled back. The instrumental continued as they began to circle one another.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre said, while he continued to play, “Try to look a bit less predatory. You look like you’re going to murder her.”

Enjolras tried to walk with a softer step and a warmer look in his eyes. She extended her hand, and the pair began to dance. Grantaire made it look so simple - as though dancing was easier than walking. Enjolras executed each smooth move clunkily. Cosette fell backwards into his arms. Grantaire would hold her against his chest, biceps tense as she leant at a forty-five degree angle, lithe legs balancing her weight on her toes. Enjolras clung tight, hoping she wouldn’t fall and break her ankles.

From there, Grantaire lifted her waist with one hand, his other supporting her outstretched legs, and they spun - Cosette suspended in mid-air like a marionette doll.

Enjolras aimed for her waist, scooping, feeling her writhe as his fingers collided with a rib. Cosette kicked her legs up to help, but he only caught one as it came hurtling down to earth, and they tumbled to the floor - Enjolras just managing to take Cosette’s weight so she didn’t fracture a bone.

“I am _so_ sorry!” he blurted.

Combeferre crashed his forearm into the piano.

“It’s fine,” Cosette said, rubbing at her ribs, her smile beginning to waver.

Combeferre stood up, throwing his hands in the air. “We can’t do this! There’s no way!” he said, pacing the hall aimlessly.

“Yeah, I’ve been saying that for about five hours!” Enjolras said back, helping Cosette to her feet.

Combeferre folded his arms, shaking his head manically. “I don’t know what to do. We’re going to die.”

Cosette dusted off her pale pink cotton skirt, looked up at Enjolras and shrugged. “If you can sing the pieces well enough, why don’t we just do a staged reading… We can all have music stands and just sing from the score. The audience probably won’t even know it was meant to be a fully staged opera, anyway.”

Combeferre stared at her dumbly, before leaping up in a very un-Combeferre-esque manner. “Yes! Yes, Cosette! You’re a genius! We’ll briefly explain that we’re showing a staged reading. You don’t even need to act. You just sing the parts. Cosette, I could marry you!”

“Oh thank God,” Enjolras breathed, slumping his shoulders. “Because I was really dreading the steamy scenes. I haven’t kissed a girl for… well, forever. Thank God. I’m sweating.”

“Get a bit of perspective, Enjolras,” Combeferre frowned. “Okay, fine. We’ll do a staged reading. Enjolras. Are you cool with just singing through the score?”

“I suppose I’ll have to be, won’t I?”

“Kind of,” Combeferre said. He winced. “You don’t even have to be that good. This is the best of an incredibly awful situation.”

 

With a sliver of the weight off his shoulders, Enjolras sung from the sheet music, sat down, not even attempting the hungry looks that Grantaire would send in Cosette’s direction.

When the majority of the cast began to arrive, Enjolras left Combeferre to explain the situation, while he dashed back to the apartment to double-check that Grantaire hadn’t died in his stupor. When he had left, Grantaire seemed as though a war wouldn’t be loud enough to wake him.

He pushed open the door to face an empty room. Enjolras’ blankets were crumpled slightly, with a handwritten note perched on top.

_‘Enjolras,’_ it read, _‘Just went for a run for that adrenaline, and gonna take a hot shower at home. You’re probably freaking out. I’m doing my best to be there for you. I’m not going to let down everything we’ve worked for because of a lousy virus. I’ll be there at six. -R.’_

 

Enjolras dashed back to school, heart racing in his chest.

Back in the auditorium, the stage had been filled with black chairs and music stands. The orchestra and cast stared at him as he burst through the doors.

“Is Grantaire here?” he gasped to Combeferre, struggling to catch his breath.

“Is he not still at ours?” Combeferre said. “He’s not here.”

“God damn it!” Enjolras rested his forehead on the piano. “Okay. I guess I’m doing this. Oh God. I’m going to be sick,” he took a moment to compose himself. “Okay. I’m going to get changed.”

It was edging on half past six.

Enjolras bared his chest in Grantaire’s changing room, looking in the mirror at the milky, untoned planes of skin that glared in the lights. He grimaced and bandaged himself in the toga, struggling to pin it into place. “Oh god,” he muttered to himself, beginning to pin the ivy leaves in his hair, hands trembling too much. He sat on his fingers to force them to stop shaking, but his whole body was wracked with tremors. “Oh god,” he said again, resting his forehead against the cool of the mirror. He checked his watch. There were a mere twenty-five minutes until the lights would go up.

The door cracked open.

“I’m fine, ‘Ferre,” he said, “I’m going to be fine.”

Enjolras turned, and his whole world shattered down on him. He stood, stumbling forwards.

“Grantaire?” he asked, as though speaking to a ghost.

Grantaire nodded back, scarf still pulled over his face. His eyes were hazy, not quite focused, his fingers jittered. “I’m here,” he croaked.

“Can you sing?”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a hip flask. “This’ll do the trick for tonight.”

“You can barely talk.”

“Not your problem,” he whispered, “Get out of the toga. I’ve got to get changed.”

“Seriously?”

“I don’t want to keep talking.” Grantaire held his hand out, and Enjolras practically threw the toga at him in his haste.

“You’ve saved my life,” Enjolras heaved an enormous sigh, yanking the ivy leaves out of his hair. “Oh my God, I’m so in love with you! Okay, I’ve got to tell everyone. Get changed quick!”

 

He sprinted onstage. “Combeferre!” he yelled, scooping as many chairs and music stands into his arms as he could.

“What the hell are you doing? Why aren't you changed? Now is not the time for you to snap, Enjolras.”

“Grantaire’s here. He’s performing. Holy mother of God. We’re running the opera as usual! Oh my God, I’m still shaking.”

“Grantaire’s back? Can he sing?”

“Well enough, apparently. Tell the cast, now! I’ll clear the stage.”

“Oh my God, thank the heavens,” Combeferre clutched his chest, “You were going to be awful!”

“Alright,” Enjolras put a hand to his chest, “I was trying my best.”

Combeferre shook his head and dragged a handful of chairs offstage, dashing off to the respective changing rooms to let everyone know.

 

As soon as the stage was cleared, Enjolras could hear the smatterings of chatter through the curtains. He rushed to his orchestra, stretching out his arms, fixing his hair, still trembling with adrenaline.

“Let’s go,” he shouted into the room, “We’re ready. Come on.”

 

The lights blared as he walked out, the applause jarring. He stood in place and raised his arms, knowing that whatever came next was never going to be as awful as him playing Dionysus. His heart swelled, his pulse raced, and was so overwhelmed with the intensity of his feelings that he almost passed out.  

When Grantaire stepped out, pale under the extra layers of makeup, Enjolras felt dizzy. Suddenly, as he had to clutch to his music stand, he realised it was not love that was making him light-headed.

He shot a panicked look at Grantaire and then Combeferre before his baton tumbled out of his limp fingers - the sound like a gunshot in the silence. His head felt heavy on his shoulders, his limbs dragged him earthbound. He crashed down a moment later - a flurry of sheet music swirling down past him, scattering across the floor. He fell gracefully, arms spiralling outwards, torso tilting backwards off the stage, golden hair dripping down from his now softened forehead. He was the picture of a fallen angel.

The silence lasted for another second before someone in the audience screamed, and the orchestra and cast rushed to Enjolras’ side, Grantaire pushing through to curl their palms together - hoisting Enjolras from his pendulous position, clutching him close.

“Enj,” Grantaire cried, shaking Enjolras’ shoulder, voice cracking - clearly not well rested enough to sing a three-hour opera, “ _Enjolras!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nnnnoooooooooooooooooooooooooooo ENJOLRAS! Am I really gonna be that gal that brings in angst in chapter TWENTY-EIGHT? the answer is yES. I am sorry. If you want a visual image of what a collapsed Enjolras looks like, just imagine aaron tveit hanging backwards out of a window, but with sheet music? once again I AM SORRY!
> 
> in other news I'VE OFFICIALLY FINISHED WRITING THIS FIC!!! There are only four more chapters after this one, so please support me through this difficult process of letting this world go, because I AM NOT READY. 
> 
> as always I'd love to hear what you thought! ((you're probs mad at me for making enjolras collapse but how many times do I have to apologise?!)) there's not much time left of this fic being updated, so get your comments in while its hot!! (lol jk but as always I ADORE reading any comments!)
> 
> thank you as always for reading! I actually can't believe over 3000 people have read this/?? I swear I thought no one but me would care about a classical music au! You're the besttttttttt!!!! <3 <3 so blessed!


	29. Interval

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras has to deal with the after-effects of his collapse at the opera, but most of all, he has to confront the neglect he has been treating himself with.

A pleasant, underwater muffle of noise filled Enjolras’ head. After a few moments of the blissful serenity, he sharply realised that he _never_ felt peaceful, and jolted upright, gasping air as though he were drowning.

Sharp, night air hit his cheeks.

“What?” he coughed, “The opera…” He tried to sit up, but a steady hand pushed him down.

“Nope,” Grantaire said, “Lie down.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras uttered, “The opera… I need to…”

Grantaire shook his head, shivering in his toga in the cold. “We’ve sent everyone back to the bar. Combeferre’s stressing over what to do next.”

“Let me… let me go back,” Enjolras said, suddenly feeling the sharp pain in his back, where it had hit the floor. “I’m fine.”

“Absolutely not,” Grantaire said, “We’re getting you to hospital.”

Enjolras looked down to where he lay, the starch white paper beneath him, the rows of medical equipment. A paramedic bustled past. _Why was he in an ambulance?_

 

“Good,” the paramedic said, “You’re awake. You’re severely dehydrated, young man. We’re going to take you to the hospital for a check up.”

“No,” Enjolras tried to sit up again, “I’m fine. I’ll drink some water. We can’t cancel.”

The paramedic raised an eyebrow, pursing her lips and sorting through a clattering box of needles. “I’m afraid not, sweetheart. It isn’t just water you need.”

Enjolras squirmed, but Grantaire held his shoulder firmly. “I refuse,” Enjolras said, “It’s against my human rights to force me to go to hospital against my will. I am perfectly fine.”

The woman’s lips pinched together further. “People who are _perfectly fine_ don’t collapse. You could have obtained a serious head injury from your fall. It would be unethical of me to let you go… so either we get to hospital now, and fix you up as quick as possible, or you kick up a fuss for longer and prolong your treatment. I know, personally, what I’d prefer.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras whined.

“Nope, do not look at me like that, Enjolras. You _collapsed._ Going to hospital is the least you can do,” he croaked, wincing as the words scraped through his sore throat.

“Get Courf to conduct. He knows it well enough… We can’t cancel.”

“Enj,” Grantaire said, with a cough, “You need to sort out your priorities. I’m obviously gonna come with you to hospital.”

“Don’t,” he said firmly, “Do the opera. You _have_ to.”

Grantaire blinked slowly, drawing back. “What?”

“I’m serious, Grantaire. Courfeyrac can conduct well. Don’t cancel on my behalf.”

Grantaire shared an exasperated glance with the paramedic. “Um…” he frowned, “If that’s what you really want…”

“I do.”

“Okay… Fine,” Grantaire cleared his throat, “Well. In that case, I’ll see you later… I should warm up again.” He turned to go, but paused. “You’re impossible, sometimes, Enjolras. Like, I don’t know if I should be impressed by _this,_ ” he waved vaguely, “Or… a little bit pissed off?”

Enjolras bit his lip, “Impressed?”  

Grantaire gave a half-laugh, eyebrows raised. “Alright,” he said, “Let’s go with that.” He placed a feather-light kiss on Enjolras’ forehead and hopped out of the ambulance, “See you later. Hope you feel better.” He turned away, the paramedic slammed the door shut, and Enjolras stared at the ceiling, simmering with anger and disappointment, a heavy weight pressing at his chest, all the way until he reached the hospital.

 

~*~

 

The diagnosis was simple. He was dehydrated, had not eaten enough, was slightly heat exhausted from rushing about under hot stage lamps all day. The doctors linked it to his immense stress, Enjolras rolled his eyes.

“I _know_ I’m stressed,” he said, “I’m in my last year of university.”

The doctors did not pay him much attention. They took a couple of blood tests, gave him some IV liquid, and left a large bottle of water, and a ham sandwich next to him. Enjolras crinkled his nose.

“Is someone going to pick you up?” a doctor asked, checking something from a sheath of papers.

“I guess…” Enjolras said, “They’re probably just finishing the opera now. I reckon they will be here soon.”

The doctor made a scribble. “Wonderful. In that case, do you want to go and sit in the waiting room? Just sip on that water, eat the sandwich. You’re completely fine.”

Enjolras grabbed the water, left the sandwich, and followed a nurse to the waiting room, slumping into a hard chair -  the aching muscles of his shoulders uncomfortable against the ridged plastic. After what felt like six hours, staring at the clock, time trickling like syrup, Combeferre burst in, still in his black orchestra suit.

“Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Enjolras said, standing. “Let’s get out of here.”

 

A taxi waited outside the hospital, silently chugging grey fumes into the velvet night.

“How did the opera go?” asked Enjolras, as soon as they stepped out of the doors.

“Fine,” Combeferre winced, “It was… alright. Courf did his best… the orchestra sounded good… Grantaire did his best, too, but… he’s really sick.”

Enjolras groaned. “It sounds like a disaster.”

“It was, really,” Combeferre said, “We should have cancelled.” He cleared his throat, palming at the back of his neck. “Look, Enjolras…” he started, barely meeting Enjolras’ eye, “I’m really sorry about today.”

Enjolras shifted, imagining an out of tune orchestra, a fumbling Courfeyrac, and a voiceless Grantaire croaking through an aria. “Was it that bad?”

Combeferre looked at him, disbelief colouring his vision. “Enjolras. You… _you collapsed._ It isn’t just about the opera. Jesus… you really are blind to everything that goes on outside of that Enjolras-bubble of yours.”

“What?”

“I’m trying to say… I’m sorry for pushing you so hard today. At the end of the day, it’s a school project, isn’t it? We shouldn’t be so hard on ourselves. We shouldn’t act like this opera is this enormous, life-altering precipice… Why the hell didn’t we just cancel when Grantaire was sick?”

“Because… we can’t cancel the opera…”

Combeferre sighed. “Honestly, performing the opera tonight made me feel really uncomfortable. We’ve blown this up mentally into something _so_ important and sacred, that we aren’t putting ourselves first. Professional opera companies have to cancel sometimes. We shouldn’t hold our work up to that pedestal.”

Enjolras squinted, shaking his head. “Why not? We need to be better than professional opera companies.”

“Enjolras. I know you can get so wrapped up in music that you don’t see anything else, and you can be pretty awful at taking care of your basic needs. This should be a wake-up call for you. You _collapsed. Onstage._ If you were stood a metre back, you could have fallen backwards off the stage and broken your neck, or something.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t.”

“Yeah, but you _could_ have.” Combeferre pulled his coat closer against him, “Grantaire had to sing through a flu, which isn’t good for his vocals, and obviously all night he was worried sick. Courfeyrac  stepped up, because he’s our best friend, and he’s amazing, but surely you can see how negligent it is to throw him onstage with less than five minutes warning…”

Enjolras faltered, shame pouring over him.

“Nothing is so important to not treat our team ethically… that includes us, too, Enj. There’s no way I should have pressured you into performing.”

“It’s fine,” Enjolras croaked.

“No it isn’t. We should be better. For everyone else and ourselves, too.” Combeferre opened the taxi door and watched Enjolras sit, before slamming the door and getting in at the other side, rattling their address to the driver.

Enjolras watched as the lights of Paris blurred past, a drizzle of rain turning the windows bleary, a gnawing emptiness pooling on his tongue and weeping into his stomach with every breath he took.

~*~

“Maybe you _should_ be a little pissed off at me,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire looked up. He was sat on the edge of Enjolras’ bed, flicking through a sheathe of sheet music, his eyes not really taking it in.

“Are you alright?”

Enjolras raised a shoulder. “Dehydration. I forgot to eat, and drink, I guess.”

Grantaire put the sheet music down, itched at his scalp, dropped his gaze. His eyes were troubled. “I’m worried about you.”

Enjolras bit a cuticle. “Join the club,” he said lightly.

“I’m being serious,” Grantaire said.

“That’s not like you,” Enjolras said, sitting down, feeling the bed curve beneath him, and Grantaire’s body weight shift towards him.

“I can’t  _always_ be wild,” Grantaire said, with a peculiar sharpness to his words. “Is that all you want me to be?”

Enjolras flinched back. “What?” he stammered, “Obviously not… What’s wrong? Talk to me.”

The dark, twisted mass of curls spiralled as Grantaire shook his head, “Sorry,” he whispered “I’m screwing this up.” He sighed. “I kind of feel mad, even though I know I shouldn’t… but mostly… mostly I just feel a bit… _sad…_ that you’ve treated something I care about so much with such little regard….”

“I-I… I didn’t mean to faint. I’m honestly furious at myself for messing the opera up.”

Grantaire shook his head again. “ _Obviously not_ the opera, idiot…” he said softly, “ _You.”_

“Look,” Grantaire said, a while later, his voice shattered, “I can’t stay long. I’ve got to go back to rest my voice.”

“You can stay here, if you want.”

“The last thing you need is the flu,” he said, giving a wheezing cough.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras said, nestling closer. “I shouldn’t have put pressure on you to perform.”

Grantaire laughed crisply. “My love, I’m a performer. It was my job to perform. You shouldn’t have put the pressure on yourself.”

“I’m a conductor. It was my job to conduct, and I ruined it all.”

Grantaire tilted his head, eyebrows raised. “So if I fainted, you’d think I ruined the opera?”

“No, obviously not,” Enjolras said hurriedly before breaking off, the pair falling into silence.

Grantaire nodded, a frown still playing over his face.

“Good night, Enjolras.” He tucked himself back into his scarf, blew a kiss, and said, slightly muffled, “Don’t beat yourself up. Tomorrow’s a new day, isn’t it? We’ll be better tomorrow.”

“Are you sure you can’t stay?” Enjolras asked, eyes longing.

“Rest, Enjolras. You need to sleep more than you need me.”

 

And then Grantaire left, and Enjolras tried to sleep, attempting with all his might not to be furious at himself, and failing at both slumber and rational thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nooo my lovelyyy boys are all angsty and sad :(( I'm literally in pain because I wrote like one chapter that isn't love confessions and heart eyes... how do y'all angst writers DO it?? ooohh gosh I love them too much to make them suffer!!  
> anyway, let me know your thoughts as alwaaaaaays, I feed on comments! 
> 
> thanks for reading! hope you enjoyed!


	30. Cadence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras recovers, with some help from Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Grantaire. Marius is as lovestruck as ever, and somehow the penultimate opera performance is upon Les Amis.

The next day, Enjolras woke to silence. He checked his alarm, startling himself that it was past twelve in the afternoon. It was immensely unlike Combeferre to  _not_ sound the morning gong, even when they were suffering winter flu, or (mostly in Courfeyrac’s case) severe Sunday morning hangovers.

He traipsed into the kitchen, eyes confronted by a table stacked with copious amounts of fruit, containers of salad and a flask. He approached, catching sight of a neon pink post-it note. Combeferre’s neat handwriting read:

_Good morning. Courf and I are at Saint-Michel’s. When you wake, eat something. We made you pumpkin soup, fresh bread, and followed about twenty different salad recipes, so if you don’t eat, we will both personally be offended. Just kidding, but please eat something. Also, ring when you’re awake. We can reassess the opera situation this afternoon. If you’re not up to it, we’ll cancel. Love you - Ferre._

Enjolras smiled softly and plucked the sticky note. Under it, a yellow note was filled with Courfeyrac’s spidery, chaotic scribbles.

_gorgeous gorgeous boy hope ur better… wanted to serenade you with a get better song this morning but ferre said it was a BAD IDEA (let me know who you agree with and if it is ferre I will have to reevaluate our friendship) anywho... not to put you off but my blood sweat and tears went into this feast… LITERALLY I cut my thumb soooo my career as a flautist could be over but since the pain was caused by my deep deep deep love for you it was WORTH IT. Legit though if I can never play the flute again I will sue. Basically this is a message to tell you to f r e a k i n eat something but probs avoid the lentil salad as it may have blood in it…. can you even read my handwriting? Probs not…. whatevaaa love youuu enjolras. PEACE OUT._

Enjolras sat and ate his way through the eclectic menu, warm in his affection for Combeferre and Courfeyrac. After a while of eating and blearily watching the Paris streets bustle from the window, the well known anxiety crept into his throat, whispering that he had to do _something,_ or he would die without achievement.

He sat at the piano, fingers crashing into a Beethoven piece. As he played, a fragment of his all-encompassing terror of failure chipped away, like dust from a statue. Enjolras viewed himself this way, a block of stone that carved away only when he practised, when he succeeded, when he was excellence personified - that only when he was great he could be a man sculpted, instead of nothing but cold marble. Watching his fingers curve and skitter over the keys, feeling his back arch and his body pulse in time to the rhythm, his eyes curving shut, his head swaying - he felt the tension coiled deep within him draw itself in golden strings from his fingertips.

He played until his energy was spent. He looked up from the piano, his eyes wild, chest heaving. With a bleary mind, he realised hours had passed and he had not thought of the opera once.

 

The ringing dial played from his phone and he jumped to answer, watching Combeferre’s name blare before he spoke.

“Hello?” he said.

“Enjolras. Hi,” Combeferre said, the bustle of Saint-Michel’s audible in the background. “How are you feeling?”

“Honestly,” Enjolras rubbed at his aching muscles, “Better.”

“Did you eat?”

“Yeah, thank you so much ‘Ferre… I really appreciate it… I really appreciate you.”

Combeferre was quiet for a moment. “Any time, Enjolras. Seriously, any time, and always.”

Enjolras heard a scuffle. “Is that Enj?” came Courfeyrac’s muffled voice, followed by a brief rustling and a thud. “Hi Enj!” Courfeyrac’s voice blared. “Did you eat?”

“Hi Courf, yeah… Thanks for the… um… blood.”

Courfeyrac laughed. “Wait!” he said, a gasp spilling through the speaker, “Does this mean you aren’t legally vegan anymore?”

Enjolras squinted, “How can one be _legally_ vegan?”

There was another commotion, followed by a sharp comment from Combeferre in the distance.

“Hey, Enj. It’s me,” said Combeferre, “Sorry Courf is being an idiot. Are you feeling well enough for the opera, do you think? Don’t feel pressured to say yes.”

Enjolras glanced to the lengths of his fingers, consulted the mild, constant ache in his head, weighed up how much better he felt after a few hours of sleep, than he had the night before.

“You know, I think I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?” Combeferre’s tone was stern.

“Yeah,” Enjolras stretched out, “I don’t feel great, but I don’t feel terrible.”

“If you faint on us again, I’m going to be seriously mad at you for not telling the truth…”

“I’m fine, ‘Ferre, honestly… I feel much better than yesterday. The hospital said I just needed to make sure I drank and ate enough, I’m _fine._ Look, I’ve got to go. I need to speak to Grantaire, but I promise I’ll be fine. I’ll be at Saint-Michel’s for six.”

 

 

By the time six rolled around, Enjolras was curled in one of the auditorium seats, Grantaire’s head resting on his shoulder.

Grantaire, too, looked far better. His nose was still a little raw, and his voice came out sounding a shade rougher than usual - but the previous rattling cough and troubled breathing had mostly disappeared.

“Yeah, my shoulders are killing me…” Enjolras said softly, “I might be a little bit stiff when conducting…”

Grantaire tutted fondly, rubbing at his forearm. “Let’s have a look…” He swiftly ran a thumb down Enjolras’ shirt, unclasping all of the buttons before Enjolras had time to protest, and bared Enjolras’ back to the cold air of the auditorium. “Jesus,” he said. “You’ve got some killer bruises.”

“Does it look really bad?” Enjolras fussed, trying to peer over his own shoulder.

“It’ll be fine, unless you were planning to conduct shirtless…” Grantaire said, rubbing a palm over the tender spots. Enjolras curled into his touch. “I wouldn’t complain…”

“Ugh,” Enjolras groaned, “I’m so embarrassed. How am I going to look the orchestra in the eye?”

“Enjolras, they are obviously not going to hold dehydration against you, are they?” Grantaire said, still running feather-light touches over Enjolras’ back. “Look them in the eye like normal.”

Enjolras rolled his head back. “Wouldn’t it be great if we didn’t have a ton of responsibilities right now…”

“Yeah, that’s adulthood, isn’t it?” Grantaire sleepily rested his forehead on Enjolras’ bare arm, “Well. It’s kind of nearly the end of term, isn’t it?”

“Just a few months to go…” Enjolras agreed.

“What are we going to do this summer?”

“Sleep a lot.”

“Nothing more?” Grantaire teased, “I had a few more exciting things in mind. We could take a day trip to Greece… for research purposes.”

“Not a day trip.”

Grantaire inched closer, “Would you want to spend longer together?” he whispered silkily.

“Um…” Enjolras halted, “That wasn’t what I meant… I mean, obviously _yes…_ But I meant I don’t fly any more because of my carbon footprint, and there’s no way we’d be able to get to Greece by public transport in less than a day.”

Grantaire began to laugh. “My romantic saviour of the planet,” he pressed his lips against Enjolras’ shoulder.

Courfeyrac entered with his usual impeccable timing at that moment, hollering coarsely, “Oi, oi, lads! Raunchy!”

Enjolras hastily rebuttoned his shirt and the pair sat a few inches apart.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” Courfeyrac said with a grin, “The opera doesn’t have to be the only show I watch tonight.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes and kissed Courfeyrac on both cheeks.

“Are you feeling up to it, my love?” Courf said, eyeing Enjolras intently.

“Yeah,” Enjolras said, eyes soft, “I feel better today. Thanks Courf.”

Courfeyrac squeezed his hands. “I’m always here for you, Enj.”

Enjolras’ face melted into a smile, and amidst it all, it was hard not to glow with contentedness.

~*~

Throughout the evening, Enjolras felt pain shoot up his spine with each flourish of his baton. He grimaced through the most passionate moments, arms lifted, all his energy focused on not allowing his muscles to shake. He noticed a few surreptitious glances from orchestra members, but pushed through the deep ache in his back.

On the plus side, it seemed as though the strings had practised themselves back into shape, and the orchestra sounded tightly-woven, moving as one. On the negative, however, Grantaire was clearly still fighting off his cold, and though to an outsider it was not obvious, those trained in classical singing would be able to recognise the tension in his throat and how hard he had to push through some of the longer, higher notes. Though he moved with the same, easy grace that was so characteristic of Dionysus, there was the tiniest knot in his forehead, that no audience member would see, but that signalled to Enjolras how deeply Grantaire suffered.

Cosette seemed to glow twice as bright to make up for it, so dazzling it was as though she had tucked starlight beneath her skin. She sung through Ariadne’s parts as though she were drowning, and each note she sung was a sweet relief of oxygen. When her tragedy came, Enjolras felt the audience shift behind him, heard a few stifled gasps, and reminded himself that he would have to thank Marius for his suggestion of asking Cosette to be a part of their opera.

The Greek chorus seemed particularly tight, that evening. Enjolras had worked mostly with the core cast members, and left Combeferre to deal with ensemble casting and teaching harmonies. They had always been a strong accompaniment, but on this night in particular, they hummed with electrical energy, seamless and professional.

Though the sheen of first night performance had thoroughly dissipated, Enjolras left the stage with the sound of applause ringing in his ears. The embraces and cheers of the cast and crew were a little more half-hearted than the first night, but still a stream of congratulations and greetings were exchanged. A similar buzz kissed Enjolras’ skin, the adrenaline of performance taking its time to seep out of his veins.

“Mad!” said Marius changing from his orchestra formal wear into a ridiculously fluffy jumper, “Only one show left… can you believe it!”

Enjolras faltered on the words stuck on his tongue. “One… Oh my God, where has the time gone?”

“I know right!” Marius gave a content sigh and snuggled himself in the sweater, “Who would believe we’d be here!” He beamed, taking a moment too long to fix his hair in the mirror. Enjolras eyed him but decided not to ask. “By the way,” Marius said, “I’m walking Cosette home tonight…” his eyes lit up, and Enjolras wouldn’t have been surprised if literal love hearts began to drift from his temple. Suddenly he coughed and stammered, turning shockingly pink in no time at all. “Not… Not walking her home to… I mean… _I’m_ not staying the night, I might stay for like _ten minutes_ or something, but not… I’m just walking her back. And then going back to my place. Getting the bus… whatever.”

“Why do you think I care what you and Cosette do?” Enjolras increased the speed of packing his bag.

“You _don’t?”_

Enjolras grimaced. “ _Obviously_ not.”

“Oh,” Marius shook his head, looking far off into the distance, “It just kind of seems like you get mad whenever I mention her… Like that time when you said the opera was so much more than a girl, and I was gambling with my future because I was rich enough not to care what happened with my music career…” Marius coughed, “Which… isn’t really… fair.”

“Did I say that?” Enjolras said, fixing the lapels of his coat.

“Um…” Marius said, “Yeah. I'll quote you if you like..." He put on a refined accent and curled his lips in what Enjolras supposed was meant to be an imitation of him, _"Is this simply a game for a rich young boy to play?"_   The beginnings of a frown were working on his forehead. “It was kind of mean… And kind of ironic... considering opera isn't exactly known to be the art form of the proletariat.” He gave a feeble fist to the air, mimicking a revolutionary.

Enjolras bristled. “Sorry,” he said, “Sometimes I can get carried away. I probably just said it because you weren’t paying attention…”

Marius’ eyes turned soft again. “She makes it so difficult to pay attention. If you could see her through my eyes, you’d understand. It’s like gazing upon an angel… a Goddess… I feel like a mortal struck down by her beauty.”

Enjolras shifted uncomfortably. “Has Jehan been teaching you to write poetry?” he said weakly.

Suddenly Marius gasped and froze, an idea trickling down his face as visibly as water. “Enjolras, you’re a genius!” he said with a smile, launching himself onto Enjolras with an enormous embrace. Somehow the fluff of his jumper got stuck in Enjolras’ lips. “I’ll see you tomorrow for the last show!” he raced out of the room.

Enjolras pulled the material out of his mouth, grimacing at the cottony taste. The door burst open and Marius ran back in. He hoisted his bassoon case from the corner, waved it like a trophy, and disappeared once more.

 

He glanced at his phone, which was blinking with a new message.

 _‘hey Enjolras,’_ it read, _‘What time did you want to meet for this meeting tomorrow? - Bahorel.’_

_‘Hi. We’re meeting Gillenormand from the Paris Opera House at 1, so want to meet at 11 to discuss a game plan? Thanks - Enjolras.’_

He ran a thumb over the dry skin of his lips, head bowed over the screen.

 

The door to the room clunked open, and Enjolras looked up, expecting to see Marius, who had probably forgotten something else vital.

“Oh,” it fell from his lips like a prayer, “Grantaire.”

“Hey,” Grantaire rubbed self-consciously at his throat. “Still sounding rough, aren’t I?”

Enjolras shook his head. “You were great.”

Grantaire smiled, glitter still smudged around the edges of his eyes. He had changed into loose-fitted shirt, sleeves billowing. “I can’t believe it’s almost over,” he said suddenly, breaking the soft, close warmth of the room.

“Me neither,” Enjolras pondered, “It feels like it has barely begun.”

Grantaire took his hand and held it tight. “Come home with me,” he said softly, letting the words dance over Enjolras. Enjolras nodded.

 

He felt like he would follow, hand-in-hand, anywhere that Grantaire led.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did I write this whole enjolras/marius interaction because I remembered the line "do we fight for the right to the night at the opera NOW?" which basically canonically DESTROYS this whole fic..... YEP! also I just wanted a red and black parallel SO badly. also I am TIRED of angst so have e/c/c being FLUFFY and adorable and bffs for life, and also e/r bein soft and caring and SWEET. Hope this makes up for enj's collapse! 
> 
> as always, I'd love to know your thoughts! can't believe this is nearly finished I'm crying! let me know if you enjoyed this chapter! thanks for reading!!!! xox


	31. Coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Les Amis prepare for the last performance of their opera, and the heaviness of all they have built towards weighs on them all.

Bahorel arrived early, dressed smartly in a fitted waistcoat. He shook both Enjolras and Combeferre’s hands, as though they were business partners, not old acquaintances.

They sat and discussed the opera, weaving in and out of the intricacies of it with their words. By the time Gillenormand joined them, the trio felt firmly on the same team.

“We’re willing to move forward with the Paris Opera,” Bahorel said evenly, meeting Gillenormand’s steely eyes carefully, “All we ask is that you reconsider casting choices.”

“Casting choices?” Gillenormand said, brows raised.

Enjolras interrupted, the passion fleeing from his chest. “I think we’ve got an excellent cast. They’ve been through conditions that I don’t think the Paris Opera would ever put them through. Like… they’ve learned the entire work in a matter of weeks, they already _know_ it… They may be college students but they are absolutely, undeniably good enough. Myself and Combeferre are _just_ college students, too, but you like our work. I think our cast should be given a real chance at continuing working on Dionysus…” he broke off, desperately searching for a hint of any emotion in Gillenormand’s taken aback gaze.

“Hm,” the artistic director said pensively, leaning back and looking far into the distance, “You’re clearly very passionate about your cast…”

Enjolras was relieved Courfeyrac was nowhere in the vicinity to make a lewd comment.

“I am,” he agreed.

“Alright,” Gillenormand said, nodding slowly, “Alright. I’ll speak to my colleagues. We’ll watch the show tonight, have a discussion, and invite anyone we particularly like to callback auditions. Obviously I can make no steadfast promises… But I’ll make sure they have a good shot at it.”

Enjolras faltered.

“That’s all I have the power to do, Enjolras,” Gillenormand said, “No matter how much you value your cast, surely you too can understand we have a multitude of factors to consider during casting… Do you not want what is ultimately best for your show?”

Combeferre gave Enjolras a sharp kick under the table at his hesitation. “Yes, yes, of course,” Enjolras said, “I understand.”

Gillenormand smiled and talk turned to royalties and advances, with numbers flying around that made Combeferre’s eyes sting, and even made Enjolras turn ghostly pale.

Bahorel kept a firm handle of the conversation, almost conducting the conversation like a symphony - when Combeferre and Enjolras were too awe-struck to say anything of worth, he seemed to find the perfect words for the moment. Gillenormand left with a smile and a promise to see them that evening.

Combeferre instantly dashed to a practice room to fit in a last minute rehearsal for the final showing.

 

“Thanks, Bahorel,” Enjolras said, shaking Bahorel’s hand once more, “I don’t think you know how much I appreciate your help over the past few days.”

Bahorel waved away his words, slightly pink in the face. “Oh, it’s nothing… really. I wouldn’t be much of a failed lawyer if I didn’t care about other people. I’m glad to help.”

“Well, you did an amazing job.”

He laughed, “Yeah, I think I fooled him into thinking I was an _actual_ lawyer. That’s always a win in my book. Anyway, I’ve got to run to class, but I’ll be in the audience tonight. I’m looking forward to it.”

“I think we’re having an after-party at Grantaire’s… I’d really like it if you came,” Enjolras said earnestly.

“I’m never one to turn down a party,” Bahorel gave a wolfish grin, “I’m there. See you tonight!”

Enjolras bade his farewell and set off to find Grantaire.

 

He lurked through the regular haunts: the smoking area, the common areas, the small practice rooms, the auditorium. Grantaire was nowhere to be found. As Enjolras traipsed back through the corridors, feeling a little bit purposeless and lost, he glanced through the glass doored classrooms, his pulse tripling when he recognised Grantaire in the back of one of Fantine’s lectures.

Enjolras slipped through the door just as Grantaire stood, making his way to the front of the classroom with his guitar. Nobody had even noticed Enjolras, so he slumped into a seat on the back row. As Grantaire sat, rubbing a dexterous palm over his lightly stubbled cheek, he looked incredibly tired, purple bruises kissing his eyelids, shoulders hunched. As soon as his fingers touched the frets of his guitar, the bone-deep weariness seeped out, and Grantaire became one with the instrument. Enjolras wondered how he had not fallen desperately in love sooner. He played like he was teasing a confession from a lover, hands careful, quickly dancing over plush melodies. Enjolras was entranced by the pink curve of his lips as they opened and began to sing, his voice utterly delicious - still a shade darkened by the after-effects of his flu, husky and sultry. Enjolras longed to taste the lyrics on his tongue. After a few moments of fixating on the shape of Grantaire’s mouth, Enjolras begun to listen to the lyrics, instead of imagining them draped over his skin. Grantaire sung woven gold tales of angels fallen, of kneeling at their feet, of gazing up through heavy-lidded eyes and being struck by greatness and terribleness. Enjolras’ heart fluttered in his chest.

All too quickly, Grantaire’s song drew to a close and he nodded with a mild smile at the scatter of applause.

“Lovely, Grantaire!” Fantine said, clapping her hands enthusiastically, “You always have such gorgeous lyrical depth! What’s this piece called?”

“Permets-Tu…” Grantaire answered, hoisting the guitar to his side, and immediately looking wearier.

“Oh, that’s beautiful,” Fantine smiled, “You should record that one. It would make a wonderful single. Lovely, take a seat. Alright, who’s next to perform?”

Grantaire returned to his chair, his eyes catching on Enjolras. All at once he looked blinded by the sun, yet unable to look away. His lips quivered between words, but he settled on silence. Enjolras smiled back and they sat, rows apart, able to think of nothing but each other.

 

~*~

Though it seemed as though hardly a moment had passed, the evening cascaded into Enjolras like unexpected summer rain. The auditorium filled with people - people who would never all be brought back together for the same purpose. A crash of deep nostalgia for something that had not even ended pulled at Enjolras’ nerves.

“Last show,” he said simply, holding the attention of the room in his hands, “Let’s make it something incredible.”

“Group hug!” Courfeyrac said, initiating a mass crush of bodies drawn together and pulled tight.

Enjolras laughed, because it was the only way he wouldn’t begin to cry, with the exhaustion and emotional extremes he was swinging between.

He tried to dash between all the changing rooms, offering final words of good luck to the room of orchestra members in their matching black shirts and rogue leaves pinned in their hair, the crew of the Greek chorus warming up, wiggling into costume as they sung in lazy harmony. He embraced Feuilly, spun Cosette around, them both marvelling at the beauty of her dress that flared and twinkled in the lights. Cosette whispered a gentle ‘thank you,’ against his ear.

“You’ve given me something to believe in,” she said, “It’s been ages since I’ve loved a project this much.”

A strange heaviness overcame him as he knocked on Grantaire’s door.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Grantaire joked, half-naked with his toga slung loosely around his waist. Enjolras took Grantaire’s face in his hands, allowing himself moments to gaze. Grantaire dropped his gaze, rarely bashful under Enjolras’ eye.

“I can’t believe it,” he said, fingers still woven around Enjolras’. “It kind of feels like the end of an era, doesn’t it?”

“Or the start of something bigger than we can imagine,” countered Enjolras, wrapping them together like vines, their kiss slow and simmering, both drawing away in harmony.

“Good luck,” Grantaire murmured against Enjolras’ lips.

“You too,” Enjolras echoed, “Be wild.”

Grantaire smiled, and Enjolras was suddenly struck with the feeling that he was watching the world spin, as he watched from a window, miles away. “Always,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras knew they would not speak again until the opera was over for good, and everything they had spent the entirety of their relationship working towards would be complete.

 

He numbly slipped through the side door of the auditorium, glancing into the crowd to see a host of familiar faces - Éponine sat on the front row, chattering over-enthusiastically to her band members - Montparnasse coiled in laughter, Guelemer, Claquesous and Babet looked somewhat unimpressed, smirks breaking through on their lips. Éponine threw her arm around the small child next to her, and Enjolras recognised it to be Gavroche, the boy that attended his free orchestra lessons. A bit further back sat Musichetta and Bossuet, curled against one another like autumn leaves. Fantine, Valjean and the intimidating board member, Javert, sat in a row, talking mildly and sipping from wine glasses. Gillenormand was close to the front, surrounded by a small entourage of important looking people, all with notepads on their laps, pens poised to make a flurry of notes. Bahorel sat on his own and shot Enjolras a wink when he noticed him glancing through the crowd. Enjolras raised his hand in a half wave and scuttled backstage, his heart pulsing right against his skin.

 

As he went to his own practice room, to retrieve his perfectly bound sheet music, and his baton, he paused, and the moment crashed over his head, sending his mind spinning. With a shudder, his door bounced open, and Courfeyrac walked in, bundling Enjolras into his arms, nestling his head in the crook of Enjolras’ shoulder.

“Hi, Courf,” Enjolras said, inhaling the sweet smoky scent of Courfeyrac’s hair, built from vanilla shampoo and spending too much time in the smoking area.

Courfeyrac mumbled against Enjolras’ chest, the tip of his nose icy cold on Enjolras’ clavicle.

“I’m getting all emotional,” he said, pouting his lips and peering through widened eyes. “This is probably our last concert together at Saint-Michel!”

“Don’t, Courf,” Enjolras said, “I’m already freaking out enough as it is!”

Courfeyrac stepped back and raised an eyebrow. “You don’t _look_ like you’re freaking out. How can you stay all gorgeous and refined and composed? I’m jealous. I swear I’m going to rust my flute by ugly-crying onto it.”

“You aren’t capable of ugly-crying.”

“Very true,” Courfeyrac said, preening at his hair with a grin. “Oh, Enjolras. How I am going to miss your compliments.”

“We still _live_ together.”

Courfeyrac shook his head, an ivy leaf dripping down his forehead. “I am in no mood to hear a voice of reason.”

“Enjolras,” came Combeferre’s voice from the door, “We’re on in five. Come on.”

“Combeferre, darling!” Courfeyrac cooed, “Come here. We need a triumvirate hug…”

Combeferre walked in sharply, “Okay, but quickly. We cannot be late.”

“How long do you think a hug lasts?” Courfeyrac tutted, grabbing Combeferre by the arm and pulling the three of them together. Amidst the warmth, they all sighed in unison, breaking into a surprised volley of laughter.

“I love you both so much it hurts my heart,” Courfeyrac said. Combeferre blinked down at him, his cheeks turning rosy, his lips trying to find the right words to say.

“Me too,” Enjolras said, “I know it feels like a big deal that this is nearly over, but it isn’t really, is it? Everything that brought us together, that made this whole thing possible, is still within us.”

Courfeyrac scrunched his nose and placed large, loud kisses on both of their cheeks. “I’m looking forward to your after-party speech, my love. Vive la France!”

“Vive la France,” Enjolras and Combeferre echoed with a shared grin.

“We had better go,” Combeferre said.

“See you on the other side,” Courfeyrac winked.

Enjolras and Combeferre hurried to the wings, winding their way through orchestra and cast members. Enjolras nodded to Mabeuf, watched the heavy velvet curtains draw, and stepped out for the final time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woooow. So there is ONLY ONE chapter of this fic left! It's all starting to get tied up! It's coming together! The opera is almost over! I'm actually so so so so stupidly emotional, so forgive me for this schmaltzy author's note....
> 
> thank you so so so so so so so so much for reading! Legit thought I was going to write like 3 chapters of this and no-one would read it, so the fact that it has over 3000 reads has actually blown my mind to a CRAZY amount.... and thank you so much to everyone who has commented! don't think you understand how insanely a comment will make my day, I love reading them, replying to them, thinking that this dumb fic of characters from 100s of years ago going to music school and being RIDICULOUSLY in LOVE has inspired even a one letter comment b l o w s my MIND?? Anyway I should save the enormous outpour of emotions for the next chapter (which will probably make me CRY??) but if you're reading this!!!!!!!!!!!! THANK YOU!!!!!!!!!! I actually can't believe this fic is coming to an end after SO LONG! I'm gonna miss my orchestra boys so much!
> 
> As always, let me know what you thought! Hope you enjoyed! See ya next time (for the last time! :((( !!!!) <3 <3 <3


	32. Finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything that Enjolras, Grantaire and Les Amis have worked towards comes cascading down upon them for the last performance of the opera. Bittersweet aftertastes of the evening draw them together, closer still.

Familiar notes drifted from the orchestra, Enjolras tugged them towards himself and tucked them under the skin of his fingertips to keep them close. They fizzled against his skin in champagne kisses.

Grantaire sung, his chest wrenched open, and the contents of his heart on display. His wildness was wilder than ever, his tenderness more tender. He sung of wine dripping from his lips like sweet poison, his accented Italian just as deadly to Enjolras as poison. Cosette drifted from him like a shadow, a wisp of a girl floating around the stage until her first solo, when the black and white outlines of her filled with a colour so bright it burned the eye. When they sung, it was one of those moments that felt like they had been designed only to sing together - as though at the end of the performance they would wind-down like music box dolls, waiting for nothing but to sing together once more.  

Dionysus’ Aria struck Enjolras even more dumb than usual, his eyes drinking in the ecstasy on Grantaire’s face, the dangerous spill of his toga down his chest, the heavenly intoxication pouring from his lips.

Feuilly bounded across the stage, with the energy of a wildfire. He sung of mischief and frolicked between cast members, drawing a string of shenanigans across the world of Ancient Greek gods. The moments of lightness, shining so bright during the final performance in particular, created a starker contrast for the darkness.

As Ariadne was dragged to the Underworld, Dionyus’ voice cracked in glass splinters, the crash of his knees on the floor percussion to his heartbreak. Grantaire’s eyes caught on the electric lights, the Greek chorus crowded around him. He sung his final notes, reprising his Aria, singing not of pleasure and lust, but the absence of warmth and the feel of a phantom hand against his own. His wildness turned from hedonistic roguishness, to the deep well of grief-stricken madness. The final glimpse of him chasing after the shadow of memory of Ariadne, the God of wine and pleasure was reduced to a caricature of a broken man. The Greek chorus dismantled his world of revelry, removing his crystal wine glasses, unmaking the bed the lovers had lay on, tearing the intimate world that a mortal and a God had shared, singing of the final loss that Dionysus would face. They drifted from the stage, voices echoing ghostly from behind the stage.

Enjolras felt his throat go dry as he raised his arms to bring the orchestra together, the final bow music drifting from them. The cast strolled back onstage, standing hand in hand and bending to the audience, faces lit in the glow of stage lights and raucous applause. They lifted a hand to Enjolras, who spun, arms wide, bowing deeply, pressing his hands to his racing heart. He pointed to Combeferre and his orchestra, clapping firmly before bowing once more and turning back to his cast, to conduct the final notes.

Grantaire looked down, his eyes brimming with a thousand words waiting to be spoken, as he bowed for the final time, his hands met his lips and he pressed a kiss in Enjolras’ direction, his heart too full.

The cast left, and the music ended, and then the opera was complete.

 

Enjolras left the stage, the sound of applause still ringing in his ears.

Combeferre was waiting, and as soon as they embraced they both broke into tears, clasping onto each other like they were sinking. Courfeyrac pushed through the crowd and joined the hug, cheering about how proud he was, and how amazing they were, and filling the air with unbound joy.

Then Grantaire was pushed forward, and he too joined the embrace, and before long the whole corridor was one mass group hug - filled with laughter and tears and a raucous buzz of energy.

“Okay,” Enjolras said, “I’m going to save the speech for the party, but thank you. Thank you all so much! We’ve been part of something so special. I’ll remember this moment for the rest of my life.”

After a few cursory conversations with teachers and colleagues, the majority of the orchestra and cast had descended on the metros, to somehow all pile into Grantaire and Éponine’s house. Gillenormand and his colleagues were stood on the steps, debating ferociously.

“Ah, Enjolras!” Gillenormand said, catching Enjolras’ attention as he stepped into the cold. “Excellent show. It grows on you the more you see it. We’re just discussing everything, but I’ll send you an email tomorrow morning or later this evening. Have a good night.”

“Thank you. It’s wonderful to see you again. I look forward to hearing back from you,” Enjolras managed to say before the crowd volleyed him towards the underground.

 

When they all arrived, Éponine and the Patron-Minette crew were already back, swept in last-minute party organisations. The table bowed with the weight of dozens of bottles. Éponine grabbed Enjolras as he entered, pulling him tight, rocking back and forth.

“You’re a genius!” she cawed, “What a smash!”

“Thank you,” he said bashfully.

“It’s no wonder R is so in love with you! Let’s raise a glass to Enjolras!” she yelled to the room, lifting her own bottle of beer and drinking deeply.

He turned pink, grateful for the low lights, as the room filled with cheers of his name.

 

Joly, Musichetta and Bossuet cornered him at the drinks table, brimming with joy.

“Joly,” Enjolras said, “Thank you. You’re such a wonder.”

Joly bloomed with happiness, tackling Enjolras in a hug. “I can’t believe it’s over already! Thank _you_ , Enjolras.”

“Tell him,” Musichetta prompted, unable to detract herself from Joly or Bossuet.

Joly fussed under the attention before letting the confession drop from his lips. “Someone from the French Musician Guild wanted to interview me!”

“Joly that’s incredible!” Enjolras beamed, “That will get you so much exposure!”

“Yeah,” Bossuet beamed, pressing a kiss to Joly’s forehead, “There’s literally nothing more badass than one-armed violinist getting featured in a national music magazine. Think of the message! Think about the kids reading that! Ugh I’m so proud of you it hurts!”

“Me too, Joly,” Enjolras said, trying not to tear up, “I’m _so_ proud of you, too.”

 

He spent the rest of the evening flickering from conversation to conversation, spilling his pride, joy and nostalgia over anyone that spoke to him.

By the time that everyone was drunk enough to be dancing wildly to a ridiculous Bach fugue, Courfeyrac paused his handstand dance routine to pull Enjolras onto a table. “Speech, speech, speech!” he demanded, leaving Enjolras stood before the crowd, like a revolutionary before his people.

“I don’t know what to say!” Enjolras tried to protest, feeling giggly and flushed, “Just… thank you, I guess? Wow. This opera has been an insane experience. I’d never even written opera before, and now we just closed a week run of a complete opera… I honestly can’t believe it. And it is all completely thanks to you… thank you for staying late after rehearsal, giving up your time, your social life, dealing with me on my bad days… Being… well, just completely talented, committed and extraordinary. Great moments come from better teams, and if what we just created was something special, all of you are the reason for that. God, I was a completely different person a few months ago… I didn’t know some of you, Feuilly, Cosette, Grantaire… now you’re all so important to the composer and conductor I have become. I know I can be strict, and a bit scary when rehearsals are running slow, or things aren’t running right, but I say this with the depth of truth… I love you all deeply, and I will never forget how wonderful each and every one of you is. To the future of Dionysus, the week we have all just survived, and most of all, to you!” He raised his drink - another Éponine cocktail - somehow sweet and savoury, curling his tongue.

“To us!” the crowd cheered back, helping lift Enjolras’ gangly limbs off the table and back to the floor.

 

Afterwards, far too many people were crammed into the small outside space, passing a joint, smoke curling around them. Grantaire’s arm crossed across Enjolras’ chest as he held the small, smoking spliff to Jehan. Jehan smoked, smiling dozily as they passed it on, steam whispering from their lips.

Jehan started a compliment circle, which was one of their favourite things to do, making everyone compliment the person sat to their left. They waxed lyrical about Courfeyrac, and the wonder he held in his eyes, and the dreams he held in his heart, and the magic held in his fingertips. Courfeyrac winked and flurried Combeferre with a heap of compliments, so ardent and unrelenting that Enjolras truly had to kick himself for not realising they were sleeping together sooner. When it was Marius’ turn to compliment Cosette he turned rosy pink.

“You’re… you’re like an angel, Cosette. I heard you singing and I knew I would never be the same again,” he blurted.

Cosette hid her smile with a hand. “Oh gosh,” she stroked his cheek with a thumb, “You are painfully sweet, Marius.”

“Please be my girlfriend,” he said quickly, almost choking on his words, “Only if you want to, of course, but… _oh, I really like you_.”

Cosette’s face split into a beam, the apples of her cheeks filling with poppy-red blush, “Of course I want to,” she smiled, she leant so close that no-one could hear the rest of her response, and then they were kissing, Marius’ hand tangled in the lengths of her hair, her arm curling around him. There was a stunned silence for a moment, before Montparnasse began a facetious round of applause, the whole group joining in genuinely. When Marius pulled back, his face was the colour of carnations, and when he caught Enjolras’ eye, Enjolras just smiled.

 

Feuilly’s turn came, and he curled against Grantaire. “R, I’ve only known you for a couple of months, but… I honestly would consider us brothers for life. You’re talented as hell, and just such a genuine guy… You’re the first to call out BS, and I really appreciate that - you never stand for sexism, racism, classism, any of that garbage. I know you like to think you’re this cynical, hedonistic guy, but I know you really care… more than most people, to be honest. It’s been an honour to act by your side. To Grantaire!” he said, toasting his glass.

“To Grantaire!” they all echoed, and Enjolras felt himself turn warm as Grantaire’s gaze fell on him.

“Enjolras,” he said, “Where to begin?”

“Keep the compliments to five minutes or less, please,” Courfeyrac sniped. “We all have places to be.”

“I’m going to compliment for exactly six minutes, now,” Grantaire narrowed his eyes, “So keep quiet, or you will be here all night,” Grantaire took Enjolras’ icy palms in his own, his pupils blown, his eyelids sleepy. “Oh God, Enjolras. I kind of can never believe that you want anything to do with me. Being around you is like glimpsing beyond mortal life. I’ve never met anyone so talented, and driven, and just beyond passionate for doing what you love.”

“Ayyy, like _you,_ ” Courfeyrac snorted, “’Cos he _loves_ you. And don’t I _know_ how much he loves _doing_ you… He said your first time was like a _symphony_.”

“Shut up, Courf,” Grantaire said with a grin, “I’m keeping this PG, or we’d be here for much, _much_ longer.” Enjolras blushed under the attention, “Obviously I could say you’re beautiful - which you clearly are, and it is pretty unfair to get amazing genes and a genius brain, but here we are. Yeah, you’re gorgeous, and yeah, sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, and see you and think I’m dreaming… but, mostly you have the most beautiful soul of anyone I’ve ever met. I know that everything you do is for some _greater_ cause… Like… how can one mind be so concerned with everything but themselves? You teach kids music for free, you run the scholarship program at school, you want your work to revolutionise the world of classical music, to make it accessible for everyone… and you do all this without anyone really recognising how much you’re doing. Like… a teacher suggested you write an opera in three months, alongside the billion other extra-curricular things you’re doing, and you just said, ‘ _yeah, why not?_ ’” He squeezed tight, and smiled, “And I don’t think you recognise how wonderful you are, yourself. You just keep on being yourself, and acting if its the norm to be so inexplicably talented, caring and just… _good._ So… yeah, I’m pretty glad that Valjean asked you to write a pop song, and you had to resort to asking _me_ for help. I love every part of you.”

Enjolras was too tipsy to speak without it being an incoherent babble of joy. He composed himself and covered his blush with his hands. “I don’t know how I’m going to live up to _that_ for the compliment circle.”

“Come on, Enj,” Jehan said, “You’re complimenting _me._ It will be easy!”

Enjolras garbled his way through a long-winded compliment, highlighting Jehan’s authenticity and unending creativity and boldness, and their wondrous advice and warmth. The group of friends all applauded as their round of compliments ended, and Grantaire pulled Enjolras out of the circle and into his room. He drew the curtains and placed an Ernest Chausson vinyl on his record player.

 

They sat on the edge of Grantaire’s bed, their skin still cold to the touch from the outdoors, both marvelling at the wonder that sat beside them. They moved in a now well-rehearsed dance, knowing precisely the movements that warmed the other’s skin like a patch of sunlight. They lay together, not really moving, just whispering sweet everythings to one another, their lips trailing from cheek, to shoulder, to collarbone, to chest. Grantaire’s hand drifted southwards, fingers dipping just below the waistband of Enjolras’ too-tight trousers. His breath hitched.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he breathed. Grantaire’s hand instantly snapped to his side.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Enjolras said, the alcohol making his tongue bolder, he laughed. “Just… just… can you wear the toga?”

“... _What?_ ” Grantaire said after a moment.

“The toga,” Enjolras laughed, “It drives me insane…”

“Oh?” Grantaire’s face lit up with a thousand volts, “I’ve never been asked to put _on_ clothes, before,” he joked, placing a loose kiss on Enjolras’ lips before standing, swaying to the music, wrapping himself in his wine-purple robe, which lay empty on his desk. He took minutes folding the fabric and pinning it into place, stealing momentary glances at Enjolras, who still lay, watching carefully, his chest heaving. “Better?” he smiled.

Enjolras couldn’t speak and grabbed the corner of the toga, Grantaire giggling as he was pulled down.

“Forgive me for asking,” Grantaire grinned, as Enjolras kissed the exposed slivers of his shoulders, “But could the toga have been a reason you wrote an Ancient Greek opera?”

“I mean,”  Enjolras laughed, “It wasn’t _not_ a reason.”

Grantaire gasped, scandalised, “You’re terrible,” he said. “I take back all my compliments. The only reason you wrote this was because you wanted to see me in a toga!”

They laughed together, hardly able to breathe as the absurdity of the past few months crashed into them.

“Well… it wasn’t the _only_ reason,” Enjolras managed between bursts of giggles, “But you do look _so_ good…”

Grantaire undid the buttons of Enjolras’ shirt, grinning the whole while. “It’s been fun teasing you while wearing it.”

“You _knew?”_

“Of course I knew! You made it pretty obvious the first time you saw me at the costume fitting, and could barely speak and looked all stricken and heart-wrought.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes and kissed him to make up for the lost minutes of kissing, and the weeks of waiting to kiss him in a toga.

And after a moment, they stopped laughing, their mouths grew hungrier, more desperate. Their touches grew more deliberate, their breath more laboured. What had been a symphony before, felt like a quiet, intimate movement - the chord of their love sweet and easy to play. The record crackled, bringing Enjolras back to the present, turning his vision even rosier under the lowlights. They didn’t rush, and they didn’t struggle, as they sometimes did, with buttons and belts and anything that lay between skin-to-skin. They danced together like violin and player, all at once complete under the other’s touch. Enjolras’ gaze was heavy with the weight of Grantaire’s beauty before him - all he wanted to do was be closer and impossibly closer, wanted to close his eyes and fall into him the way he fell into an exquisite piece of music. He wanted to draw him out and compose every stretch of Grantaire’s skin onto manuscript paper, the major key of his bright eyes and the thrilling melody of his thorough touches.  

 

A while later, Enjolras left, his shirt buttoned wrong, his cheeks florid pink, his lips unable to stop from curling into a smile. He brought them back both glasses of water, and a pitcher of Éponine’s cocktail, which now somehow tasted magnificent. Grantaire still curled on the pillow, his chest bared, the toga spilling onto the floor.

“Your phone went off,” Grantaire nodded to the night stand where Enjolras’ phone glinted mutely. “Thanks,” he said, sipping the water, and then refilling the cup with the cocktail. Enjolras slipped back beneath the covers, coiling against Grantaire’s warmth. He unlocked his phone to find an email notification.

“Oh God,” Enjolras said, “It’s from Gillenormand. I can’t bear it. You read it.” He thrust his phone into Grantaire’s hands, who cleared his throat.

“ _Dear Enjolras and Combeferre_ ,” he read obediently, squinting a little at the screen, “ _Congratulations for a successful run of your opera. My colleagues and I had a wonderful time in the audience, and have been debating all evening about your proposal. You’ve won me around,_ ” Grantaire looked up, “What proposal?” he asked.

“Don’t stop reading!” Enjolras gaped, “I just said we wouldn’t go forward with them if they didn’t consider casting you. Keep reading!”

“What?” Grantaire’s mouth dropped open. “You _what?”_

“It’s nothing major. Me and ‘Ferre want you as Dionysus, so it seems kind of unfair if they don’t consider you,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire leant forwards and kissed him hungrily, taking his golden curls in his hands and holding as though he were drowning.

“You did that for me?” he asked.

“Obviously,” Enjolras said, “You’re my Dionysus… How could I not?” Grantaire kissed him again, and didn’t stop until Enjolras pushed at his chest. “Come on. I need to find out what he’s said!”

“It doesn’t matter,” Grantaire said, “God. I don’t think I’ve ever believed in anyone more than I believe in you.”

Enjolras glowed with warmth. “I believe in you, too. That’s why we should read what he’s said.”

“Okay, okay,” Grantaire looked back down, a hand still curled in Enjolras’ hair, “ _We’d like to invite the leads back for another audition. If you could make sure Feuilly, Cosette and Grantaire are free tomorrow afternoon for a meeting, and informal sing-through of some of their pieces so we can make some notes, I would appreciate it. All the best, Gillenormand, the Paris Opera.”_

They could do nothing but hover in silence for a moment, the echo of the words swimming around them.

“What the _hell?_ ” Grantaire said, his mouth fluttering, his eyes blurring. “You got me an audition for the Paris Opera? Holy shit, _Enjolras.._. How in the universe am I ever going to thank you enough?”

Enjolras’ hands shook with adrenaline, and he pressed Grantaire’s lips against his own. Their kisses and heavy breaths were punctuated with exclamations and expressions of disbelief from both of them, and afterwards they lay curled into one another, unable to imagine being happier.

 

Hours later, when the majority of the party began to take midnight buses back home, Grantaire held Enjolras back as he went to return home with Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

“Stay,” he implored, “Please. I think we should start tomorrow together.”

The words cascaded into Enjolras, and he wondered how he hadn’t blurted his love for Grantaire far sooner.

“Hand in hand,” Enjolras agreed.

Grantaire stretched his fingers out, crooking his callused palms perfectly into Enjolras’. “Hand in hand,” he echoed, his eyes filled with midnight electricity - gleaming like distant windows in a house miles away. Enjolras longed to breach the gap - to be closer than he had ever been to another human in his life. Grantaire smiled then, as though he knew the flurry of smitten thoughts dancing through Enjolras’ mind - and he looked so much like the boy on the steps of Saint-Michel who had asked a distracted Enjolras for a lighter all those months ago. At their cores, they were the same two young musicians who had collided on that long ago morning, but palm-to-palm and chest-to-chest, they had journeyed so far from who they had been that day.

On the cusp of what felt like the end of the world as they knew it, the pair of lovers carried on walking - _hand in hand_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END.
> 
> OH MY GOD.
> 
> Virtuoso is COMPLETE!
> 
> I am honestly in shock! Okay, wow! Where to begin! This fic has been an absolute blast to write! I've just had the most magical time making my fave characters be just as nerdy and ridiculous as me! I feel so heartbroken that it is over - I just want to write my orchestra boys forever! But it is time for them to live and prosper in whatever fictional dreamland that characters go to when their story is over. 
> 
> So... that might be a slight lie, because I'm 100% going to post this fics corresponding playlist when I finish it - but their story is OFFICIALLY OVER..... Unless I decide to write some ridiculous 100k word retelling of this fic but from Enjolras' cello's perspective (which would be SO DUMB but also sounds like something I would totally do....) 
> 
> OKAY it is time to get SOPPY! Honestly, from the bottom of my heart! To anyone who has read, left a kudos or a comment on this fic - thank you so so so so so so so so much! To see this fic grow from 1 read to the multi-chaptered, novel length monstrosity that it now is has been just indescribably special to me - I totally thought I'd post 2 chapters and no one would read or care about it, and it would drift off unfinished into the abyss! So as cheesily oscar-winning speech this sounds, I literally would not have DoNe ThiS WiThOuT YOU.   
> In truth, this has kind of been a hard year for me - with graduating uni myself, feeling pretty lost, and doubting myself and my writing - and as lame as it is - this fic has always been something to write when I've had writers block, or I just couldn't write a single word of anything else - so every tiny kind word or kudos has meant a ridiculous amount to me! It feels insane to think that some peeps in the world actually care about what I'm writing! Every comment has inspired me to write so much more!
> 
> SO... I suppose this is the end! Goodbye orchestra boys, gals and folks! I'm gonna miss ya! And goodbye to you, lovely reader! I'll miss you too! 
> 
> As always, please let me know what you think! I would love to know how you feel about this chapter, or this fic as a whole - whether you've commented a bunch of times, or never before! Any comments will probably make me happy-cry because I'm a bit emotional right now! Hope you've enjoyed it - if you have, thank you! I'm really happy with how it all wrapped up, and I hope you are too! Let's just be friends and talk about enj and r for all eternity, please!
> 
> Peace out!

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! let me know what you think!!


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